Shane Harrison's Blog - Posts Tagged "ian-rankin"
Edinburgh - The Writers' City
There are few cities that provide the spectacle and depth of Edinburgh. Its skyline is an imagined fantasy, ancient and ornate. Implacable of outline, yet harbouring a wealth of tales, written and being written up untill this very moment. Cities are as much a construct of stories as they are of stone, Edinburgh rejoices in both. Like Dublin, you can translate it through its writers, distant and contemporary wordsmiths honoured in various ways. Prince’s Street features the stunning spire of the Walter Scott Monument, rising two hundred feet into the sky. More discreet memorials too. The dark laneways of the old town speak of Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde. Above them rise a conspiracy of spires and turrets, the broken teeth of old volcanoes, the whispering stone of graveyards and kirk. Sleuths saunter in the shadows, from Sherlock Holmes to John Rebus, demons and wizards, killers and creators number amongst the cast of Edinburgh’s multitude of stories.
As one door into this maze, I thought of the contemporary world of John Rebus, that hardboiled detective created by Ian Rankin. Planning this trip to Edinburgh, only my second, I messaged Rankin if he could offer a tour of Rebus watering holes as a pathway through the city. Rankin obliged, so I had a list of seven pubs giving me a route through the streets of the Scottish capital.
It has taken me three years to act on it.The lockdown gave us our own version of the plague, locking us into awkward isolation. I had first visited Edinburgh in the mid nineties. Autumn is a good time to visit Scotland, grey, gold and auburn, and prey to mists. It was a treat for my fortieth birthday, which falls on Saint Andrew’s Day. Andrew provides the Saltire for Scotland’s flag, being the patron saint. And I am half Scottish. My father was born in Scotland, in the mining country of Blantyre, between here and Glasgow.
Back then, myself and M took the Hidden Edinburgh tour, which was a guided walk through the subterranean city of the Old Town. Gloomy indeed, especially in late November. It took off from the Royal Mile, the spine of the city. Our young guide was as charming, loud and funny as we expect a Scottish guide to be, they’re just born to it. Tales of ghosts and ghouls and graverobbers loomed out of the misty evening. We journeyed beneath the streets themselves, finding graveyards down there too, Stopping in a catacomb, our guide whispered this was once an entire street which had been blockaded in Plague times, the residents left there to die, or survive if God so chose. Now, that’s what I call Lockdown.
Rankin was born in 1960 in Cardenden, Fife, north of Edinburgh, on the far side of the Firth of Forth. He never intended to write a detective series. The first Rebus adventure was intended as a stand alone novel, as something of a modern day version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mister Hyde. Titled Knots and Crosses it was published in 1987 and followed by Hide and Seek in 1990, also influenced by Jeckyll and Hyde. Hide, get it?
Rebus himself was born some years before his creator, in the later forties up in Fife and hardened in the smithy of Northern Ireland during the early Troubles. Exit Music, 2007, saw Rebus reach sixty, retirement age for a police officer. Rebus was buried, but not dead, and rose again five years later in the appropriately titled, Standing in Another Man’s Grave. Rebus now retired but unable to let the past, or the present go. Rankin has published twenty four Rebus novels up to the recent A Heart Full of Headstones 2022.
Rankin puts the Oxford Bar , Rebus’s most regular haunt, top of his list. Coincidentally, my trip to Oxford some years back, also took a writer’s prism. in this case Colin Dexter’s Morse, myself and M took a wonderfully entertaining tour in tandem with the adventures of Morse, and of course the long suffering Lewis. The Oxford Bar itself is in Edinburgh’s New Town. The idea of the New Town was first proposed by James VII when Duke of York (of New York fame) as a sophisticated extension to the overcrowded ancient city above. The Battle of the Boyne put paid to that, as James lost his crown, but the idea was refloated in 1766 and a design competition held. This was won by a young local architect James Craig and work soon began on the project.
Prince’s Street forms the southern edge. George Street is the central axis, along the apex of a low ridge from the Albert equestrian statue in Charlotte Square to the Melville Memorial in St Andrew’s Square. It is calm and wide, diners relaxing outdoors in the midday sun. Queen Street completed the northern perimeter. The narrower Rose Street and Thistle Street lie between, with the transverse streets at right angles, Hanover Street, Frederick Street and Castle Street The naming emphasises the theme of the unification of the two kingdoms, as some like to see the annexation of Scotland. It is all very Georgian and grandiose. But there are creeks and alleys.
The Oxford Bar is well hidden, an oasis in a cramped enclave of honeyed brick on narrow Young Street, north of George Street. It dates back to 1811 and retains the intimate structure of its origins. There’s a tiny bar inside the entrance, a few steps up to a larger room to the rear sparsely furnished in gloomy wood, aglow with honeyed daylight through the sandblasted Oxford window. It’s there I take my pint of IPA and sit as if in a sepia photograph, my only company the solid beam of sunlight, and a man reading a novel by its light. It’s a literary pub, to be sure. I noticed Robbie Burns presiding over the bars as I ordered my Deucher’sthe photo gallery features musicians and others, but most notably Rankin himself (natch). I see too that Colin Dexter is a noted visitor. On the way out, I receive a bookmark or two as souvenir from the pleasant landlady who served me,
Outside, I take in the atmosphere in the traditional manner before heading south along Castle Street. Rose Street, reminds me of Cork’s Oliver Plunkett Street, narrow, straight, cobbled and quaint.It’s pedestrianised and a busy mix of shops, cafes and bars. Abbotsford is at the eastern end. Named for the home of Sir Walter Scott in the Borderlands to the south. The pub is an Edwardian saloon, well upholstered beneath an ornate ceiling and around an imposing mahogonay island bar. There’s a restaurant upstairs. I order a Tennents, frothy and longlasting, the gift that keeps on giving. The bar is busy and I take my drink onto the terrace where I can catch the suns afternoon rays. A nearby busker rests his back against the railings of Rose Street Garden. This open air cafe and wine bar is a popular celbrity haunt. It les at the back of The Dome on George Street, a neo-classical building from 1847, once a bank and now a chic restaurant. Back on my stretch of pavement, more are following my lead in taking the air. It’s most pleasant. The busker’s repertoire is Dylanesque, with a tartan weave that includes The Proclaimers amongst others. He’s giving it the full nine yards, and might be better dialling it down a bit. I wonder should I ask him to sing Faraway.
Number three on the list is the Cafe Royal. This is beyond St Andrew’s Square on a secluded side street. The Cafe Royal is a lovely Victorian bar with towering glass windows designed by Architect Robert Paterson from 1863. It describes itself as an Oyster Bar. Though shellfish is poison to me, there are more edible alternatives including haggis, venison and other Scottish delights. The walls are adorned with glorious ceramic tiled panels by John Eyre and stained glass windows featuring famous inventors including Jamers Watt, a pioneer of the steam engine, and also the copying machine. I can imagine myself in an age of elegance, amongst the gleaming brasswork and gasslamps. Prince’s Street is just a block away, abuzz with the height of the tea time rush. But here is a place to shelter from the outdoors, however benign, and bask in the glow of crafted opulence, art and intimacy; and a fine malt whisky, of course.
As one door into this maze, I thought of the contemporary world of John Rebus, that hardboiled detective created by Ian Rankin. Planning this trip to Edinburgh, only my second, I messaged Rankin if he could offer a tour of Rebus watering holes as a pathway through the city. Rankin obliged, so I had a list of seven pubs giving me a route through the streets of the Scottish capital.
It has taken me three years to act on it.The lockdown gave us our own version of the plague, locking us into awkward isolation. I had first visited Edinburgh in the mid nineties. Autumn is a good time to visit Scotland, grey, gold and auburn, and prey to mists. It was a treat for my fortieth birthday, which falls on Saint Andrew’s Day. Andrew provides the Saltire for Scotland’s flag, being the patron saint. And I am half Scottish. My father was born in Scotland, in the mining country of Blantyre, between here and Glasgow.
Back then, myself and M took the Hidden Edinburgh tour, which was a guided walk through the subterranean city of the Old Town. Gloomy indeed, especially in late November. It took off from the Royal Mile, the spine of the city. Our young guide was as charming, loud and funny as we expect a Scottish guide to be, they’re just born to it. Tales of ghosts and ghouls and graverobbers loomed out of the misty evening. We journeyed beneath the streets themselves, finding graveyards down there too, Stopping in a catacomb, our guide whispered this was once an entire street which had been blockaded in Plague times, the residents left there to die, or survive if God so chose. Now, that’s what I call Lockdown.
Rankin was born in 1960 in Cardenden, Fife, north of Edinburgh, on the far side of the Firth of Forth. He never intended to write a detective series. The first Rebus adventure was intended as a stand alone novel, as something of a modern day version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mister Hyde. Titled Knots and Crosses it was published in 1987 and followed by Hide and Seek in 1990, also influenced by Jeckyll and Hyde. Hide, get it?
Rebus himself was born some years before his creator, in the later forties up in Fife and hardened in the smithy of Northern Ireland during the early Troubles. Exit Music, 2007, saw Rebus reach sixty, retirement age for a police officer. Rebus was buried, but not dead, and rose again five years later in the appropriately titled, Standing in Another Man’s Grave. Rebus now retired but unable to let the past, or the present go. Rankin has published twenty four Rebus novels up to the recent A Heart Full of Headstones 2022.
Rankin puts the Oxford Bar , Rebus’s most regular haunt, top of his list. Coincidentally, my trip to Oxford some years back, also took a writer’s prism. in this case Colin Dexter’s Morse, myself and M took a wonderfully entertaining tour in tandem with the adventures of Morse, and of course the long suffering Lewis. The Oxford Bar itself is in Edinburgh’s New Town. The idea of the New Town was first proposed by James VII when Duke of York (of New York fame) as a sophisticated extension to the overcrowded ancient city above. The Battle of the Boyne put paid to that, as James lost his crown, but the idea was refloated in 1766 and a design competition held. This was won by a young local architect James Craig and work soon began on the project.
Prince’s Street forms the southern edge. George Street is the central axis, along the apex of a low ridge from the Albert equestrian statue in Charlotte Square to the Melville Memorial in St Andrew’s Square. It is calm and wide, diners relaxing outdoors in the midday sun. Queen Street completed the northern perimeter. The narrower Rose Street and Thistle Street lie between, with the transverse streets at right angles, Hanover Street, Frederick Street and Castle Street The naming emphasises the theme of the unification of the two kingdoms, as some like to see the annexation of Scotland. It is all very Georgian and grandiose. But there are creeks and alleys.
The Oxford Bar is well hidden, an oasis in a cramped enclave of honeyed brick on narrow Young Street, north of George Street. It dates back to 1811 and retains the intimate structure of its origins. There’s a tiny bar inside the entrance, a few steps up to a larger room to the rear sparsely furnished in gloomy wood, aglow with honeyed daylight through the sandblasted Oxford window. It’s there I take my pint of IPA and sit as if in a sepia photograph, my only company the solid beam of sunlight, and a man reading a novel by its light. It’s a literary pub, to be sure. I noticed Robbie Burns presiding over the bars as I ordered my Deucher’sthe photo gallery features musicians and others, but most notably Rankin himself (natch). I see too that Colin Dexter is a noted visitor. On the way out, I receive a bookmark or two as souvenir from the pleasant landlady who served me,
Outside, I take in the atmosphere in the traditional manner before heading south along Castle Street. Rose Street, reminds me of Cork’s Oliver Plunkett Street, narrow, straight, cobbled and quaint.It’s pedestrianised and a busy mix of shops, cafes and bars. Abbotsford is at the eastern end. Named for the home of Sir Walter Scott in the Borderlands to the south. The pub is an Edwardian saloon, well upholstered beneath an ornate ceiling and around an imposing mahogonay island bar. There’s a restaurant upstairs. I order a Tennents, frothy and longlasting, the gift that keeps on giving. The bar is busy and I take my drink onto the terrace where I can catch the suns afternoon rays. A nearby busker rests his back against the railings of Rose Street Garden. This open air cafe and wine bar is a popular celbrity haunt. It les at the back of The Dome on George Street, a neo-classical building from 1847, once a bank and now a chic restaurant. Back on my stretch of pavement, more are following my lead in taking the air. It’s most pleasant. The busker’s repertoire is Dylanesque, with a tartan weave that includes The Proclaimers amongst others. He’s giving it the full nine yards, and might be better dialling it down a bit. I wonder should I ask him to sing Faraway.
Number three on the list is the Cafe Royal. This is beyond St Andrew’s Square on a secluded side street. The Cafe Royal is a lovely Victorian bar with towering glass windows designed by Architect Robert Paterson from 1863. It describes itself as an Oyster Bar. Though shellfish is poison to me, there are more edible alternatives including haggis, venison and other Scottish delights. The walls are adorned with glorious ceramic tiled panels by John Eyre and stained glass windows featuring famous inventors including Jamers Watt, a pioneer of the steam engine, and also the copying machine. I can imagine myself in an age of elegance, amongst the gleaming brasswork and gasslamps. Prince’s Street is just a block away, abuzz with the height of the tea time rush. But here is a place to shelter from the outdoors, however benign, and bask in the glow of crafted opulence, art and intimacy; and a fine malt whisky, of course.
Edinburgh - The Writers' City - 3
The Edinburgh Writers’ Museum is a good place to get a grounding in the city’s literature. It features three writers who are prominent in the historical canon: Robert Burns, Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. The building itself is well hidden, being off one of those many narrow, windie ways that drop down from the spine of the Royal Mile to the city of the plains below. Having missed it the day before, I find myself back at the summit of the Old Town again, clearer of mind and vision, determined to reach my target. The Old Town is, of course, crowned with the Castle fronted by the famous Esplanade, conjuring visions of strapping Scotsmen in kilts blowing a multitude of bagpipes. From here descends the Royal Mile, main street Scotland and a mixed wonderland. After the sedate aura of the Camera Obscura, the street is again thronged and rings with the refrains of serial bagpipers busking in doorways.
Helpfully, there’s a tourist pointing down the laneway by a souvenir shop, which turns out to be Lady Stair’s Close connecting Lawnmarket and the Mound. A close is a gated enclosure, for the posher sort who didn’t want to rub soldiers with regular folk. A wynde, meanwhile, was open to all. The narrow lane widens to reveal a quaint, but grand, turretted house. Lady Stair’s House was built in 1622 for Sir William Gray, and was long known for his widow, Lady Gray, who continued to live there after his death. Their granddaughter Elizabeth Dundas, became Lady Stair and that name is now attached to the building. In fact, the original house was largely demolished in an extensive renewal of the Old Town in the late nineteenth century. The new house is a cunning medieval pastiche by Arts and Crafts architect Stewart Henbest Capper. Other than the inscribed lintel little above ground remains from the original. All was passed on to the Burgh in 1907 for use as a museum by then owner, Archibald Primrose, the Earl of Rosebery. The house overlooks Makars’ Court. Makar is the Sots term for a writer, or bard. It was appled here in 1997 when twelve writers were commemorated with quotes from their work engraved on pavement slabs. There are over forty there now. Amongst them, one from Walter Scott:Walter Scott: This is my own, my native land.
I mooch around for a while, as the preceeding tourist points at various parts of the building. Entrance is free and offers a series of nestled portals into a number of worlds. There’s Robert Burns, Scotland’s Bard, who epitomises the traditional national identity in the music of language. Born in Ayr in 1759, he wrote in English, and the Guid Scots Tongue, and indeed often somewhere in between. Scots is the old English of the Anglo Saxon settlement of Britian and is preserved in Burns’s poetry. His first collection Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, includes To a Mouse, a startling ode to empathy.
Meanwhile, Address to a Haggis is the focal ceremony of Burns Night, another Scottish National Holiday in Winter. Saint Andrew’s Day in November, and Hogmanay on New Year’s Eve being the others. The Haggis, served with tatties (Potatoes) and neaps (parsnips), is a rite of passage for anyone wishing to eat their way through Scotland. White pudding is our equivalent, humbler than the exalted haggis; Great Chieftain o’ the Pudding Race, as Rabbie puts it. Burns is also responsible for Auld Lang Syne, which he adapted from an ancient source. It is a song of farewell, but implicitly of unextinguishable friendship. It is the standard farewell to the old year, and a welcome to the new throughout the English speaking world. And then there’s Jools Holland. Burns himself bade farewell to this earth in 1796, at the age of thirty seven.
The museum’s Walter Scott display includes the first edition of Waverley and the press on which the Waverley novels were printed, James Ballantyne’s handpress. There’s a lifesize tableau to bring you into that world.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894) completes the trio. An illustration for Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes 1879 is based on the quote:
I lay lazily smoking and studying the colour of the sky, as we call the void of space, from where it showed a reddish grey behind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue black beween the stars,
The line speaks to all travellers who have reflected on their travels. Writers should stensil it to their bedroom ceiling; make it the motto of their dreams, and their inspiration on waking. Consider also Treasure Island, Kidnapped, A Child’s Garden of Verses. There’s a ring Stevenson received as a present from a Samoan chief, engraved Tusitala, signifying the teller of tales. Stevenson was certainly a masterful weaver of tales, from the raw material of his travels, his imagination, and the humdrum of life. His wardrobe is here, made by the infamous Deacon Brodie. Brodie was a renowned cabinet maker and locksmith, skills he also harnessed when moonlighting as a burglar. His split life was a possible inspiration for the Strange Case of Doctor Jeckyll and Mister Hyde. Stevenson died in Samoa and is buried there beneath the epitaph: Home is the sailor home from the sea.
Drunk from the joys of literature, I feel an actual drink would be in order. I wind my way downhill past The Bow, and on to Grassmarket, a long plaza in the shadow of Castle Rock, with a concentration of eateries and drinking dens. Cobblestoned and tree lined, it’s perfect for an outdoor drink on a sunny day. Dating back to the late fourteenth century, the area for centuries operaed as a horse and cattle market. Some of the hostelries are indeed ancient and ripe with story. William and his sister Dorothy Worsworth stayed at the White Hart, as did Robbie Burns, and more balefully, the murderers Burke and Hare. Though not all at the same time. The Wordsworth’s stay is recorded in Dorothy’s Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland, 1803. The account features the six week sojourn of the Wordsworth’s through the Scottish Highlands with their friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Their journey by jaunting car was something of a Romantic epic, amd a homage to such Scottish literary and historic figures as Burns, Scott, Rob Roy and William Wallace. It was published posthumously in 1874.
Helpfully, there’s a tourist pointing down the laneway by a souvenir shop, which turns out to be Lady Stair’s Close connecting Lawnmarket and the Mound. A close is a gated enclosure, for the posher sort who didn’t want to rub soldiers with regular folk. A wynde, meanwhile, was open to all. The narrow lane widens to reveal a quaint, but grand, turretted house. Lady Stair’s House was built in 1622 for Sir William Gray, and was long known for his widow, Lady Gray, who continued to live there after his death. Their granddaughter Elizabeth Dundas, became Lady Stair and that name is now attached to the building. In fact, the original house was largely demolished in an extensive renewal of the Old Town in the late nineteenth century. The new house is a cunning medieval pastiche by Arts and Crafts architect Stewart Henbest Capper. Other than the inscribed lintel little above ground remains from the original. All was passed on to the Burgh in 1907 for use as a museum by then owner, Archibald Primrose, the Earl of Rosebery. The house overlooks Makars’ Court. Makar is the Sots term for a writer, or bard. It was appled here in 1997 when twelve writers were commemorated with quotes from their work engraved on pavement slabs. There are over forty there now. Amongst them, one from Walter Scott:Walter Scott: This is my own, my native land.
I mooch around for a while, as the preceeding tourist points at various parts of the building. Entrance is free and offers a series of nestled portals into a number of worlds. There’s Robert Burns, Scotland’s Bard, who epitomises the traditional national identity in the music of language. Born in Ayr in 1759, he wrote in English, and the Guid Scots Tongue, and indeed often somewhere in between. Scots is the old English of the Anglo Saxon settlement of Britian and is preserved in Burns’s poetry. His first collection Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, includes To a Mouse, a startling ode to empathy.
Meanwhile, Address to a Haggis is the focal ceremony of Burns Night, another Scottish National Holiday in Winter. Saint Andrew’s Day in November, and Hogmanay on New Year’s Eve being the others. The Haggis, served with tatties (Potatoes) and neaps (parsnips), is a rite of passage for anyone wishing to eat their way through Scotland. White pudding is our equivalent, humbler than the exalted haggis; Great Chieftain o’ the Pudding Race, as Rabbie puts it. Burns is also responsible for Auld Lang Syne, which he adapted from an ancient source. It is a song of farewell, but implicitly of unextinguishable friendship. It is the standard farewell to the old year, and a welcome to the new throughout the English speaking world. And then there’s Jools Holland. Burns himself bade farewell to this earth in 1796, at the age of thirty seven.
The museum’s Walter Scott display includes the first edition of Waverley and the press on which the Waverley novels were printed, James Ballantyne’s handpress. There’s a lifesize tableau to bring you into that world.
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894) completes the trio. An illustration for Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes 1879 is based on the quote:
I lay lazily smoking and studying the colour of the sky, as we call the void of space, from where it showed a reddish grey behind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue black beween the stars,
The line speaks to all travellers who have reflected on their travels. Writers should stensil it to their bedroom ceiling; make it the motto of their dreams, and their inspiration on waking. Consider also Treasure Island, Kidnapped, A Child’s Garden of Verses. There’s a ring Stevenson received as a present from a Samoan chief, engraved Tusitala, signifying the teller of tales. Stevenson was certainly a masterful weaver of tales, from the raw material of his travels, his imagination, and the humdrum of life. His wardrobe is here, made by the infamous Deacon Brodie. Brodie was a renowned cabinet maker and locksmith, skills he also harnessed when moonlighting as a burglar. His split life was a possible inspiration for the Strange Case of Doctor Jeckyll and Mister Hyde. Stevenson died in Samoa and is buried there beneath the epitaph: Home is the sailor home from the sea.
Drunk from the joys of literature, I feel an actual drink would be in order. I wind my way downhill past The Bow, and on to Grassmarket, a long plaza in the shadow of Castle Rock, with a concentration of eateries and drinking dens. Cobblestoned and tree lined, it’s perfect for an outdoor drink on a sunny day. Dating back to the late fourteenth century, the area for centuries operaed as a horse and cattle market. Some of the hostelries are indeed ancient and ripe with story. William and his sister Dorothy Worsworth stayed at the White Hart, as did Robbie Burns, and more balefully, the murderers Burke and Hare. Though not all at the same time. The Wordsworth’s stay is recorded in Dorothy’s Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland, 1803. The account features the six week sojourn of the Wordsworth’s through the Scottish Highlands with their friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Their journey by jaunting car was something of a Romantic epic, amd a homage to such Scottish literary and historic figures as Burns, Scott, Rob Roy and William Wallace. It was published posthumously in 1874.
Edinburgh - The Writers' City - 4
At the end of Grassmarket the road divides. Straight on and you pass under the bridges that buttress the Old Town. Candlemaker Row slopes upward to join George IV Bridge with the wall of Greyfriars Churchyard along one side. The Grey Friars themselves were Franciscans whose monastery was dissolved in 1560 as Scotland was gripped by the Reformation. It was a place of free assembly and The Covenanters signed the National Covenant here in 1638. This asserted the primacy of the Scottish Presbyterian Church but their revolt was soon defeated in the Battle of Bothwell Bridge. Following the battle, four hundred prisoners were held in a section of the churchyard, and it became known as the Covenanters Prison.
Most famous of the kirkyard’s former residents is a wee dog. Greyfriars Bobby. A Skye Terrier, he belonged to a nightwatchman with the city police, John Gray. When Gray died in 1858, it is said that Bobby, his watchdog, kept watch at the graveside until its own death fourteen years later. By this time he had become well known, to the extent that Edinburgh’s Lord Provost, William Chambers had the dog licensed and collared. A year after Bobby died, English philanthropist, Lady Angela Burdett-Coutts was so touched by the story that she had a statue erected in is memory. Outside the gates you’ll find the granite fountain surmounted by a lifesize bronze statue of Bobby.
The legend has grown. I saw the Disney film back in the early sixties. This was based on Eleanor Atkinson’s novel of 1812 and has a different version of events. Here, John Gray is a farmer who comes to Edinburgh and dies. A major character is Mr John Traill, of Trail’s Temperance Coffee House, who in real life claimed Jock and Bobby were regular visitors. As the coffee house was opened four years after Gray’s death, it may be something of a shaggy dog story. A more recent film in 2005 controversially starred a West Highland Terrier playing Bobby, an example of cultural appropriation. The Temperance Coffee House was located outside the gates, and is now, thankfully a bar. Greyfriars Bobby’s Bar is an old style pub, with outside tables to catch the midday sun
Around the corner on Forrest Road is Sandy Bell’s, another pub on the Rankin Rebus Pub Crawl. This is a folk bar with evening sessions featuring Irish and Scottish traditional music. It’s a century old and was first known as the Forrest Hill. Blossoming in the folk heyday of the sixties, Barbara Dickson, Billy Connolly and Gerry Rafferty are amongst its alumni. In the 80s a landlord installed a puggie or slot machine, bane of British pubs, but the regulars delivered an ultimatum, either it goes or we go, and it lasted all of a day. Sandy Bell’s became the official name in the nineties, as that’s what everyone called it, dating back to the twenties when the pub was owned by a Mrs Bell.
Across the street is the Scottish Museum. This is two buildings. The Royal Museum was built in the 1860s and houses displays of industry, science, technology and natural history. The modern building from 1998 is a formidable and concrete slab in the Le Corbusier style, which paradoxically concentrates on history and antiquities. Admission is free. The old building has that Great Exhibition air to it; the Grand Gallery of cast iron and light was inspired by the Crystal Palace.
The statue guarding the entrance is of William Chambers, who asides from his love of dogs, had a notable career. Born in 1800, he opened his first bookshop at nineteen and established a publishing empire with his younger brother Robert. As Lord Provost of Edinburgh in the 1860s he initiated major street construction projects hereabouts.
Chambers Street connects to the North and South Bridges joining Old and New Towns and bisected by the Royal Mile. I’m searching for the Royal Oak, another stop on the Rebus Pub Crawl. Hidden down Infirmary Road, its modest entrance leads to a welcoming traditional bar. The pub is two centuries old and is long established as an informal folk music venue. It features in Rankin’s Set in Darkness, eleventh in the Rebus series set during the birth of Scottish devolution. A duo discusses politics at the upstairs bar while I am engaged by the young lady serving. She tells me tales of growing up on Scotland’s east coast and I can thread in vague experiences of my own including Inverness and the shores of Lough Ness. There be monsters and dragons, and bagpipe festivals, and ancient standing stones where you might catch a glimpse of Catriona Balfe flitting through timezones in a diaphanous shift. But I digress. The lady merges the two conversational groups and now we argue over the travails of Mister Trump and his chances of reelection. There’s a smoke break, and I’m left alone with the mirrors and memories, and haunting lines of musicians who have gone or yet to visit.
Last on Rankin’s list is Bennetts, another old style pub on the southern approaches. It’s on my route home to Morningside, retracing my steps back to Tollcross and onto Leven Street. Bennetts is next door to the King’s Theatre, currently closed for renovations. There’s been a pub here since 1839, its current incarnation dates to the start of the twentieth century, about the time the theatre first opened. It’s a beautiful Victorian bar with high windows, wood and brass fittings, an open fire and snug. Here I spy the bagpipe busker from outside the Academy, his weaponry laid out on the table on his LGBQT flag. The barman proposes a chocolate flavoured stout which hails, I think, from Skye. Meanwhile, beyond Bennett’s huge windows, the sky above has opened and the deluge pours upon all without. I should stay sheltered I suppose.
Further on, Bruntsfield Place rejoices in the high, neo-gothic architecture typical of the city. Bruntsfield is birthplace of Muriel Spark. Her novel the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie was published in 1961. It was filmed in 1969 starring Maggie Smith. The film depicts Jean living in this area with the school based on nearby Morningside. On one of my all too many days off school I snuck into a Dublin cinema to catch this, becoming lost in a world of Scottish schoolgirls, bohemian art and some challenging social political theory. Maggie Smith won an Oscar. I’m in m’prime!
Bruntsfield Links provides a welcome slice of greenery on the city’s edge. It is, perhaps, the founding place for the ancient game of golf. The Golf Tavern boasts of dating back to 1456. Certainly, the Links were the playground of the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society, now known as the Royal, which claims to be the oldest golf society in the world, formed in 1735. They became a club and moved to their own course in 1890. There is still a pitch and putt course on the Links, but most is now a public park.
From the seats outside I have a view across the links to Arthur’s Seat. Arthur’s Seat is a remnant of the ancient volcano, along with Calton Hill, and the Castle Crag. It has featured frequently in the city’s literature, with many appearances in the Rebus series. One particularly evocative scene occurs in James Hogg’s fantastical novel the Confessions of a Justified Sinner of 1824. A broken spectre on the misty mountain makes for an eerie culmination in the struggle between the two sibling protagonists, George and Robert. Robert and his evil alter ego, Gil Martin is another inspiration for Jekyll and Hyde.
The Arthur in question is said to be the legendary king of the Britons who halted the AngloSaxon advance in the sixth century. Those events and their people are lost in the mists of time. Rather as Arthur’s Seat is now. A fog, or haar, has swept over the Old Town, so that as I turn to say farewell, the spires and peaks and castle of Auld Reikie float on its murky cushion, slipping off towards the horizon. And are gone.
Most famous of the kirkyard’s former residents is a wee dog. Greyfriars Bobby. A Skye Terrier, he belonged to a nightwatchman with the city police, John Gray. When Gray died in 1858, it is said that Bobby, his watchdog, kept watch at the graveside until its own death fourteen years later. By this time he had become well known, to the extent that Edinburgh’s Lord Provost, William Chambers had the dog licensed and collared. A year after Bobby died, English philanthropist, Lady Angela Burdett-Coutts was so touched by the story that she had a statue erected in is memory. Outside the gates you’ll find the granite fountain surmounted by a lifesize bronze statue of Bobby.
The legend has grown. I saw the Disney film back in the early sixties. This was based on Eleanor Atkinson’s novel of 1812 and has a different version of events. Here, John Gray is a farmer who comes to Edinburgh and dies. A major character is Mr John Traill, of Trail’s Temperance Coffee House, who in real life claimed Jock and Bobby were regular visitors. As the coffee house was opened four years after Gray’s death, it may be something of a shaggy dog story. A more recent film in 2005 controversially starred a West Highland Terrier playing Bobby, an example of cultural appropriation. The Temperance Coffee House was located outside the gates, and is now, thankfully a bar. Greyfriars Bobby’s Bar is an old style pub, with outside tables to catch the midday sun
Around the corner on Forrest Road is Sandy Bell’s, another pub on the Rankin Rebus Pub Crawl. This is a folk bar with evening sessions featuring Irish and Scottish traditional music. It’s a century old and was first known as the Forrest Hill. Blossoming in the folk heyday of the sixties, Barbara Dickson, Billy Connolly and Gerry Rafferty are amongst its alumni. In the 80s a landlord installed a puggie or slot machine, bane of British pubs, but the regulars delivered an ultimatum, either it goes or we go, and it lasted all of a day. Sandy Bell’s became the official name in the nineties, as that’s what everyone called it, dating back to the twenties when the pub was owned by a Mrs Bell.
Across the street is the Scottish Museum. This is two buildings. The Royal Museum was built in the 1860s and houses displays of industry, science, technology and natural history. The modern building from 1998 is a formidable and concrete slab in the Le Corbusier style, which paradoxically concentrates on history and antiquities. Admission is free. The old building has that Great Exhibition air to it; the Grand Gallery of cast iron and light was inspired by the Crystal Palace.
The statue guarding the entrance is of William Chambers, who asides from his love of dogs, had a notable career. Born in 1800, he opened his first bookshop at nineteen and established a publishing empire with his younger brother Robert. As Lord Provost of Edinburgh in the 1860s he initiated major street construction projects hereabouts.
Chambers Street connects to the North and South Bridges joining Old and New Towns and bisected by the Royal Mile. I’m searching for the Royal Oak, another stop on the Rebus Pub Crawl. Hidden down Infirmary Road, its modest entrance leads to a welcoming traditional bar. The pub is two centuries old and is long established as an informal folk music venue. It features in Rankin’s Set in Darkness, eleventh in the Rebus series set during the birth of Scottish devolution. A duo discusses politics at the upstairs bar while I am engaged by the young lady serving. She tells me tales of growing up on Scotland’s east coast and I can thread in vague experiences of my own including Inverness and the shores of Lough Ness. There be monsters and dragons, and bagpipe festivals, and ancient standing stones where you might catch a glimpse of Catriona Balfe flitting through timezones in a diaphanous shift. But I digress. The lady merges the two conversational groups and now we argue over the travails of Mister Trump and his chances of reelection. There’s a smoke break, and I’m left alone with the mirrors and memories, and haunting lines of musicians who have gone or yet to visit.
Last on Rankin’s list is Bennetts, another old style pub on the southern approaches. It’s on my route home to Morningside, retracing my steps back to Tollcross and onto Leven Street. Bennetts is next door to the King’s Theatre, currently closed for renovations. There’s been a pub here since 1839, its current incarnation dates to the start of the twentieth century, about the time the theatre first opened. It’s a beautiful Victorian bar with high windows, wood and brass fittings, an open fire and snug. Here I spy the bagpipe busker from outside the Academy, his weaponry laid out on the table on his LGBQT flag. The barman proposes a chocolate flavoured stout which hails, I think, from Skye. Meanwhile, beyond Bennett’s huge windows, the sky above has opened and the deluge pours upon all without. I should stay sheltered I suppose.
Further on, Bruntsfield Place rejoices in the high, neo-gothic architecture typical of the city. Bruntsfield is birthplace of Muriel Spark. Her novel the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie was published in 1961. It was filmed in 1969 starring Maggie Smith. The film depicts Jean living in this area with the school based on nearby Morningside. On one of my all too many days off school I snuck into a Dublin cinema to catch this, becoming lost in a world of Scottish schoolgirls, bohemian art and some challenging social political theory. Maggie Smith won an Oscar. I’m in m’prime!
Bruntsfield Links provides a welcome slice of greenery on the city’s edge. It is, perhaps, the founding place for the ancient game of golf. The Golf Tavern boasts of dating back to 1456. Certainly, the Links were the playground of the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society, now known as the Royal, which claims to be the oldest golf society in the world, formed in 1735. They became a club and moved to their own course in 1890. There is still a pitch and putt course on the Links, but most is now a public park.
From the seats outside I have a view across the links to Arthur’s Seat. Arthur’s Seat is a remnant of the ancient volcano, along with Calton Hill, and the Castle Crag. It has featured frequently in the city’s literature, with many appearances in the Rebus series. One particularly evocative scene occurs in James Hogg’s fantastical novel the Confessions of a Justified Sinner of 1824. A broken spectre on the misty mountain makes for an eerie culmination in the struggle between the two sibling protagonists, George and Robert. Robert and his evil alter ego, Gil Martin is another inspiration for Jekyll and Hyde.
The Arthur in question is said to be the legendary king of the Britons who halted the AngloSaxon advance in the sixth century. Those events and their people are lost in the mists of time. Rather as Arthur’s Seat is now. A fog, or haar, has swept over the Old Town, so that as I turn to say farewell, the spires and peaks and castle of Auld Reikie float on its murky cushion, slipping off towards the horizon. And are gone.
