Distilling Edinburgh
Sue Jackson savours the fine blend of past
and present that is today’s Edinburgh.
On our first evening in Edinburgh we lucked on a great
restaurant, Room in the Town, right in the heart of
the New Town. Tucking into my vegetarian haggis, I
couldn’t help overhearing the loud exchange between a trio of
young Scots at the next table.
They weren’t discussing the next day’s Rugby Union World
Cup match, Scotland versus the mighty All Blacks, at nearby
Murrayfield. No, what had them fired up was a battle of a
completely different sort: the strategies used in Blar Chuil
Lodair (the Battle of Culloden) – the defining clash between
the British Government and the Highland Scots in the spring
of 1746. Current events may come and go, but in Edinburgh,
history is always present.
After all, Edinburgh’s New Town was so named to distinguish it
from the ancient Old Town, so crowded and smelly – ‘flowers of
Edinburgh’ was the ironic nickname for the local stench – that the
wealthy determined to relocate. This was in 1767 – predating the
brief history of ‘white Australia’, but a blink of the eye for the locals.
The New Town is a delight; so well-preserved that I
half-expected to see residents in Georgian garb step out
of the front doors and climb onto their horses from the wide
double-stepped pavements especially designed to make
mounting easier. There are gaslights, foot scrapers and ‘rustification’ of the lowest storeys, where the servants lived.
Beautiful Charlotte Square, where Queen Victoria erected
a monument to her beloved Albert, has been home to
numerous famous residents. It was there that one of them,
Alexander Graham Bell, received the news from Western
Union that his telephone was “an interesting novelty without
any commercial possibilities”.
Edinburgh is full of examples of the unbroken line from
the past to the present. I’m still slightly astonished that
Ian Rankin’s popular anti-hero, Inspector Rebus, plies his
trade in Edinburgh’s dark underworld – it’s hard to believe
that this genteel city would have one. But Rankin is on to
something; he is, in fact, part of a long tradition of local writers
who have made Edinburgh’s dark side their focus.
One of Rankin’s novels, Resurrection Men, is unabashedly
inspired by the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, written
by another famous local, Robert Louis Stevenson, and first
published in 1886. Stevenson had based his Jekyll and Hyde
on the real-life figure of William Brodie, a man who knew all
about Edinburgh’s proprieties – and how to flout them.
In the 18th century, this highly respected Old Town Councillor
and Deacon of the Guild of Wrights and Masons spent his
days fraternising with his fellow citizens, while at night he took
delight in robbing them blind. Although Brodie was eventually
unmasked, captured and hanged, he was, and still is, a local
hero. As we sipped a decorous cup of tea in Brodie’s old
home, now the Deacon’s House Café in the famous Royal Mile,
I imagined his amusement at playing host all over again to
respectable, and paying, guests.
At the top of the Royal Mile is the stunning Edinburgh Castle, with
its meandering parapets, massive oak gates and drawbridge. This
ancient fortress dominates the skyline and provides the ultimate
backdrop. No wonder the famous Edinburgh Military Tattoo has
been staged there annually for over 50 years. Near the entrance to
the Castle’s forecourt stands an old cast-iron water fountain known
as the Witches’ Well. Spotting it, I realised the Tattoo was not the
first spectacular to have been staged on Castle Rock.
In the 16th century, Edinburgh
was the most enthusiastic city
in the whole country in ridding
itself of witches. The nearby
Nor’ Loch was once the site of ‘trials by ducking’, during which ‘innocent’ women sank and
drowned, while the survivors,
deemed guilty, ended their
days on Castle Rock. Just as the
Tattoo’s fireworks light up the
night sky, so did the flames from
the witches’ pyres.
My friend Justin is mad about terriers, so I’d promised to visit
Greyfriar’s Kirkyard, near the George IV Bridge, to convey
Justin’s respects to Greyfriar’s Bobby, the celebrity terrier.
After the death of his master in 1858, Bobby sat by the
graveside for 14 years until his own death. There are websites
dedicated to this loyal dog, who has also been the inspiration
for several films. Bobby was regularly fed during his vigil by
patrons of the nearby Last Drop tavern, so we decided to stroll
over there for a wee dram – purely for research purposes.
The charming façade of this ancient pub belies its grim past.
It was named the Last Drop because of its proximity to the
public hangings in the Grassmarket. Drinkers could drain their
glasses while watching their fellow citizens ‘drop’. The tavern
still offers a potent mix of strong cider and ale, called the
Executioner Cocktail. I gave it a miss.
One group that provided plenty of entertainment was the
Covenanters. During the 17th century, numerous dissenting
Presbyterian ministers and their followers paid with their lives
for their religious convictions. Many were buried in Greyfriars
Kirkyard, their plots enclosed in ornate stone and ironwork cages.
Even dead, the Covenanters were kept behind bars, protected
in these ‘mortsafes’ from the ‘resurrectionists’, including the
infamous body-snatchers Burke and Hare, who made their living
supplying the Edinburgh Medical College with corpses.
Over in the National Gallery of Scotland you can find one
of the nation’s best-known paintings, The Skating Minister,
by the portraitist Sir Henry Raeburn. It features the
Reverend Robert Walker, impeccably dressed in top hat,
frock coat and dog collar, skating nonchalantly. The picture
is gorgeous, but given the fate of the Covenanters,
Minister Walker was possibly skating on very thin ice.
Edinburgh has
a well-earned
reputation for cultural
excellence, yet there
are plenty of modern
nonconformists
who don’t take it
too seriously. I was
amused to see the
grand columns at
the entrance to the
imposing Royal Scottish
Academy – hosting an
Andy Warhol exhibition – encased in huge Campbell’s
tomato soup cans. And the city is home to the Really Terrible
Orchestra founded by the writer Alexander McCall Smith and
his wife Elizabeth.
It is also scenically spectacular. From the Parthenon, on Calton
Hill, there is a wonderful view right over the Firth of Forth to
Fife (try saying that with a few drams of whisky under your
belt). And yes, I did say ‘Parthenon’. In 1822, the city fathers
commissioned a replica of the Parthenon for the ‘Athens of the
North’. But public subscriptions fell short, so the Parthenon
remained incomplete, and was duly dubbed ‘Scotland’s
Disgrace’. Picnickers and sightseers love it.
Several times during our visit we were wished “Lang may
yer lum reek”, translated as “May your chimney smoke for a
long time”. This was a particularly felicitous greeting in a city
whose climate Dr Samuel Johnson concluded “is such that the
weak succumb young … and the strong envy them”. Few rely
on open fires for heating these days, yet the ancient greeting
endures. This is no surprise because, in Edinburgh, the past is
always present, and a fine old blend it is.
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