Edinburgh & The Lakes
"I went and bought shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, an earl grey tea and a latte. Shortly after this, I burnt my hand and hit my head. It was raining outside. There was also a sense of mild starvation that grew with the day. I know what you’re thinking — that sounds like a grotty, mundane morning to be on your holibobs. Well well well wouldn’t you be wrong you presumptive little ferret gooch."
The 30th December we set off north for a seven hour drive. The year’s penultimate day, the yes’s looming yay. I did the stretch to those stunning grey-green services just before Lancaster. A soggy slog of a journey up the M5 followed by much of the same up the M6, but worth the sore lower back and bleary eyes for that stunning panopticonic, centrepiece, that bleak bleak beauty. If you ask me, which you didn’t and won’t have done, the Pennine Tower belongs in Vegas. I’d drive there to see it. Fortunately, Georgie took over for the stint past the Scottish border, where the natural beauty either side of the winding road comprises rolling lowlands and rounded peaks of muted green and sweet yellow. Crawling through 20mph villages is a fair price to pay for those views out the passenger side. I’m fairly sure — not so much of its intention but of its likeness, yes, I’ll double down — that some prankster of a farmhand has partnered with some biologist of a tree surgeon and carved a cluster of trees into a dick and balls. The time is ripe to be alive. We had left Bristol just after 8, I think. Arrived in Edinburgh just gone 3. You do the math you little fucker. It adds up to a good run.
Ok, try to rearrange those two single beds. Go on. You opted for the hostel room, guys, because it was cheap, and it was one of very few available before Nicola Sturgeon had her merry little way with proceedings, cancelling all the fun and games, so at the time you clicked confirm the whole world and its Godmother Ethel were heading to have it large at Hogmanay, and it’s slap bang in the middle of town so why wouldn’t you? Well, the only reason you might not is because there’s two single beds in the room, rather than the double or larger that you’re so decadently accustomed to. No, that’s no issue. You’ll just rearrange it so it’s a fashioned, centre-dip double. Go on then. Try and rearrange the bed go on. Between 7 and 9 beads on my forehead later, and having plucked the plug socket slightly from its place on the wall, we gave in on that dream, and settled for what actually turned out to be absolutely no issue whatsoever. To the contrary, perhaps. Sweet respite. Anyway, what are you dallying for, get out and about it.
Let me start by saying what I shan’t repeat throughout this piece: Edinburgh is a most excellent city. Its old brickwork and cobbled streets are steeped in a history that we sadly didn’t really scratch the surface of. What we did traverse aplenty, though, was its pleasant ensembles of eateries, cafe’s, vistas and landmarks. It is a place where tucked away hilly spots pave ways to long, light-adorned streets, still giving off the feel of festive cheer following the Christmas period, and making everything look a wee bit more magical. We were based up in the old town, but did plenty of meandering around. It was still abuzz with life, despite Sturgeon’s sordid shift.
To the castle first, which was dark for the most part, but with projections flickering upon its street-facing bricks. Then we ambled down the hill and over to Tigerlily, which is in New Town, beyond the Christmas Market stalls and the park of kindness. Or was it just the Tree of Kindness in the heart of a little square? Anyway, I heard a Ma tell her erratic offspring to ‘come over here, fock’s sake you’re annoyin’ as we perused the sentiment of joviality and tolerance. Tigerlily is down George Street, which was twinkling and chilly. It’s the kind of bougie place that overlooks basic speed-of-service, perhaps because you should just be happy to be there, because it’s bougie and there are leather jackets draped over loads of chairs and tight jeans on folks and lots and lots of selfies in front of florid walls. Apparently. That is rather enough of my whining, wouldn’t you say? Perched there, we each had a much-deserved beer and a rejuvenating Espresso Martini, a combination that set us up aptly for the evening. Ambling back into the heart of the action — a la Victoria Street, a downward curving, pretty-lit number leading to a square with further appealing establishments; this is Grassmarket I believe. Biddy Mulligans is one such joint, and it set us right with a few Guinnu, lest we stray from the spirit and wonder of our Irish jaunt a few moons back. Then Chris turned up, looking rugged and worn from the season of Brussels and Turkey, but still clutching and playing his guitar with refined aplomb, and still belting out bangers for the rowdy crowd to get onboard with. Ah, Chris. Our Chris. A partnership too short-lived, really. But on this note, quickly — I was hellbent on seeing as much live music as possible during our time in Edinburgh. It feels like a city that was built for it, and is unwrittenly known for it, and in the absence of some giant jolly the least we could pursue was talented folks on foot or stools that could bless our ears with traditional ditties and kindly covers. We weren’t disappointed in this regard. Anywho, Chris, dear Chris, our beautiful Chris was great, but we had a table booked at Howies. The one round the corner that we thought it was, it in fact was not, and so we had a light jog back down to the New Town, giggling and spluttering as we went, to the one that it in fact was.
“Yeah, two lots of Haggis, Neeps and Tatties for starters please”
“No, no, I think we’ll stick with tap water for now, thanks”
“Actually — not sure we’re going to have a main, but let’s look at the dessert menu quickly, yep, thanks, give us a second”
“Mmm, we’ll share a banoffee pie please”.
There was bread in there as well, don’t mess about Sam.
Blessed be and blessed do; the wonder of a £22 evening meal out. It must have been the Guinnu. Or the hour. Or maybe we needn’t seek excuses, because it was just the right amount and really rather delicious too. Afterwards, we sat for just shy of a couple of hours at a half pop-up, half-permanent Edinburgh Gin spot, where there were acoustics and heaters. Thought the dude in the little wooden hut was Gerry Cinnamon a few times but alas, his music was nice enough. It was here that we recognised the severity of Edinburgh’s leather trouser epidemic. What’s the story? That’s not even rhetorical — I could do with someone explaining it to me, because I’m a little on the furrow-browed side when it comes to leather trousers, and I couldn’t even avert those furrows and winces to another pocket of space without someone striding in, sporting you know what, and filling my line of sight all over again. Georgie was naturally rather amused by this turn of events, and started pointing them out to me, thinking I hadn’t already clocked them all; that I hadn’t rapidly developed a blaring leather trou radar. Has this spread from England northwards? Or have they their own micro-culture of odd shiny preferences up there? The questions.
It got a bit late, not too late, but a bit, and we called it a night. I think we zonked momentarily, together, on one of the beds, before returning to the sweetness, solitude, and roll-out danger of our grubby little singles.
Goodness gracious Gertrude, enough of the niceties. Let’s talk about the wallpaper in our hostel room. It is oh so worthy of coverage. It was like a dull grey-blue with cream calligraphy writing of the utmost ‘live, laugh, love’ ilk scrawled over it. A few of the personal favourites that we kept returning our eyes and bafflement to:
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‘Love will set you free’
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‘Beautiful things’
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‘243’ and ‘5’ — numbers just lobbed on there for lack of a better idea? What designer thought, ah man I’m running out of mantras here, I’ll stick a few rudimentary digits on there, no one will notice…
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‘Live’ (yep, just thrown in there as a timely prompt — to get the fuck out the hostel room, I guess).
I went and bought shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, an earl grey tea and a latte. Shortly after this, I burnt my hand and hit my head. It was raining outside. There was also a sense of mild starvation that grew with the day. I know what you’re thinking — that sounds like a grotty, mundane morning to be on your holibobs. Well well well wouldn’t you be wrong you presumptive little ferret gooch. We went and did Arthur’s Seat. Then we did the big mound next to it. The views from both were delightful. The drizzle subsided pretty much the whole time, and brightness cast itself sporadically, ever-so-beautifully on the city, on Leith, and on the small boats and doubtlessly benign beings of Blackness Bay. I was in shorts and t-shirt at one stage, which very rapidly revealed itself to be a mistake. We scrambled and climbed and reached the summit where we swiftly got fucked by an onslaught of high winds. Those blustery blackbirds were in a similar predicament, eh. Or were they enjoying it? Playing around and paying homage to mother nature’s formidable power. I think that aptly describes what we were up to. A good few hours of hiking, strolling, looking down on wet stone descents, and slipping on muddy patches. We even had a wee jog down the old T2 Trainspotting pathway at the end, in pursuit of some sustenance. It took us a while. A story of true perseverance followed. We didn’t settle or sulk. We searched and we sensed and we enquired with our kindest smiles and biggest most beautiful eyelashes until a place called Greenwoods gave us the nod….for an hour’s time.
Well it’s a mocha and onion armpits in the interim, then.
The food! The satiation!! The progression of exclamation marks!!!
This unassuming place on Frederick St. — north from the corner of Thistle and Hill — is a fusion of traditional and modern, both in its dishes and the decor. It may be that we were so famished even a sub-standard plate of garble would’ve had us quaking and praying, but I daren’t do any discredit to the genuine quality of the scran there. It was delicious and the wooden furniture was arranged cosy so you could hear snippets of other tables talking about how nice the food was (and Nicola Sturgeon having screwed us all) ((and why does it smell like onions so much here)). I had a full Scottish. G had Eggs Royale with creamy hollandaise and delicious smoked salmon. It was all so overwhelming that I almost didn’t make it back to the hostel room without having a small accident.
Aaaanyway. It was New Year’s Eve. The last day of a year. 2021 had definitely been better than the last one. Far far better. But still a bit weird, and still a bit stagnant. Nothing stagnant about our New Year’s Eve though eeeeeeee. See what I did see what I did? Came full circle in the course of this here small paragraph. That isn’t half writerly.
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And what of this photography, huh? That's NYE that is. Pure and simple and plain.
We went to a place called Whiski Rooms that got really bloody busy in the 20 minutes following our arrival. Come to think of it, we had a similar impact on plenty of the joints we attended throughout the furore. We’ll call it the S&G effect. We could do lifestyle books and city guides and even a fragrance. I’d like to see the ad for the fragrance. Maybe I could write it. We had some cocktails at that particular place, and, having gotten ourselves in the groove, took the S&G effect and our swathes of followers to the Sushi spot that dearest Georgina had booked for us, round the castle, down the hill and into the bustle a little bit. It was semi-dead when we arrived. But then we arrived.
S&G!
Fade to black. Credits roll. Sushi rolls with them.
It was so fucking delicious. We got a good array — a crispy cali number and a platter of mixed fish sush, with enough soy sauce to dry out the Waters of Leith, and wasabi set to send your nose hairs reeling, begging for mercy. The Aperol Spritz was a fine supplement
Thereafter, it kicked off.
We had a two-person, warm disco in the room for a short while. Old school R&B could translate to ‘rum and bru’, couldn’t it? Killer combo. In quantities! The night was still young enough, and we headed out in search of some tunes. This saw us enquire and not succeed, until we did a big loop that still to this minute I can’t really make sense of geographically, that landed us about 100 metres away from the hostel off the Royal Mile. Whistlebinkies! Winkleberries! Waferbabel! We queued there for maybe 15 minutes and made some friends. Tried to get some beer in a kebab shop. Paid five pounds apiece for entry to a section called ‘the caves’, which didn’t actually have sight of the live music, nor were its speakers connected, nor was it ventilated or welcoming. This was a slight turn. People had scratched stuff into the wood there. Like prison. They do that in prison. It wasn’t cool, really. We chatted shite with the others in a similar predicament, and over-ordered drinks to compensate for the scene, before swiftly making our way out onto the streets from whence we came. I think both of us in some small part were thinking at this juncture: Sturgeon, you are a pest. But it worked out nice, you know. We topped up on Rum&Bru at the room, had another dance, and headed up to the castle for the chiming of the bells. It was lively up there, and felt pretty wholesome, from what I can remember. What can I remember?
Saying some soppy things to my lover, listening to Auld Lang Syne on someone’s tinny speaker, calling people and wishing them a good one, telling them (and perhaps others?) repeatedly that I needed a wee, looking for a toilet, peeing by a bin, not seeing many fireworks, drinking rum from a water bottle, holding G some more, roaming and stumbling amidst the jovial masses. We were both rather piddled by this point, as you can imagine. I started to feel a bit slow or blue or ropey for a little bit, which was a shame, because Georgie escorted us to a cluster of people around a bagpipe player, and there, she swigged and swang and sang and danced whilst I just sort of swayed and watched on. In another life it’d have been entirely my bag. But I wasn’t reeling for too long. It was past 1, and we found a place (a bloody brilliant place, may I add — The Piper’s Rest) where a man was singing songs in gravelly baritone, and people were jigging by their tables. So did we. More jagerbombs weren’t necessary in the slightest. My undeserving ticker. Things blurred out further, but I know we danced with one another and sipped whisky before stumbling back and passing out. It all went by rather quickly, in retrospect, but it was a celebration and it was a new, exciting scene!
Hello ‘22.
It all started a touch on the tender side, and that’s where it stayed. Fuzzy, heavy and a bit depleted by the look of myself in the mirror, we fought through the morning with a shared shower and a breakfast roll. What we won’t do (beyond this sentence) is mention the lorne sausage. Ok maybe we can give it limited pagetime. It is a sausage patty, but it tastes weird. At least it did this particular time, and its flavour profile was not conducive to recovery, but really rather sent me westwards. Walking, slowly, hither and thither, I rode waves of nausea and lethargy, but enjoyed the sights and sounds of a new year in Edinburgh. First, we headed to Dalton Hill, with pretty views over Leith in the clear blue skies, giving momentary life to my sorry being despite the half empty burger bar box clutched in my hand. The remnants of an old monument felt pretty apt. From there we meandered slowly to, and around, The Meadows. Georgie’s twin had lived close by during some of her university years. Lovely sprawling fields with walkways and stimuli for tired eyes. We sat on a bench (no not that bench, that one, no wait not that one, that one) and enviously observed doges exhibiting scary energy levels. There was a child absolutely revering the faux guitarist. There were people queuing a long time for a coffee and a bite. It was blue as anything on the first day of the year, which was most welcome indeed, because we spent the grand bulk of it in need of the fresh air. It took me circa 45 minutes to eat a slice of dreampizza. As one would expect, the nap called. My airways were set in such a way (part and parcel of my haphazard body positioning on the bed, with the bag sprawled beneath me) so that I kept waking myself with light snores, and then looked at Georgie directly in my eye line, who was also in a shallow slumber and so had roused from the sound too, which meant it looked like I spent no actual time resting at all, but rather just starting at her. I drifted and snoozed and rode out other bodily sensations and erstwhile emotions for maybe 45 minutes before we got up and out again. No use wallowing. We ended up at an artsy cafe with nice hot drinks and a wedge of lemon drizzle cake (that’s what we bought, not who we ended up there with, feel that’s a really important clarification and glad I’ve made it). It was ambient and pleasant, and had this absurdly abstract video playing on loop. That picture, with its plastic sheets and flailing hands and hanging laundry, combined with our general sense of delirium, prompted what I will call Laughter Breakout #1. It was uncontrollable for a fair slice of time.
We weren’t quite ready for dinner, so went for a softy and asked each other how many chicken wings is in a kilogram and how many onion rings are in four kilograms and other such vital lines of inquiry prompted by the menu of this pub. Then we were ready for dinner, but we didn’t want kilograms of beige satties, weirdly, so we left. Dasut, it was called. I’d found it through a cursory search not long before. Thai place. Bloody good Thai place. I ate a big chunk of chilli and started perspiring. Georgie burned up and drank maybe 4 pints of water in 30 minutes. Then, towards the end of the very tasty meal, we entered Laughter Breakout #2, which would’ve been a little more uncouth, I’d have thought, given the formality of the venue and the bustling seats around us (courtesy, of course, of the S&G effect, terms and conditions apply). Not that we cared. Laughter is a tonic — we had it in oodles that afternoon and evening. From there, we walked back in the grim rain. Determined as I was, and as I’ve mentioned, to not neglect the pleasure cortex of our lugholes, I dragged us out to The Piper’s Rest, where the smell of our small and single Guinnu was not enough to deter from the sweet singing of Graeme E Pearson. He was a character, and a talented man. Aye aye, not a late one.
Hello ‘22.
Let that be your most physically challenging day for not-so-young Samuel.
Eventually, we realised we’d made it, so why bother switching things up? A charcuterie and cheeseboard got itself ordered, which to this day I find to be an extraordinary display of culinary autonomy. Then it got what I can only call a fuckload of herbs sprinkled over it before being transported upstairs to our little deathly den. Three different types of cheeses (big ol’ chunks, may I add). More than that many types of meat. Oranges and a sliced pear and grapes and chutney and a sort of lemony garlicky dip, with a lettuce leaf sprawled on diagonal corners of this giant slate, cupping olives and sundrieds and drizzles of balsamic. All with herbs. So many herbs. It was bloody good, if not a bit bloody gluttonous. We got back and zoned out for a while, listening to power ballads and attempting to dance before giving into the blaring signs of our bodies. It had been a very very entertaining evening.
I saved Georgie’s life. She was going to fall out of bed (she wasn’t) and so I protected her with some firm fingers to the ribs. This is modern love. Read it and weep.
We were up and out, relatively speaking, and our light, healthy breakfast on the fly was entirely necessitated by the scenes of the night before. Down to the lakeside, where the water lapped against the stoney shoreline, and pink salmon swimmers bobbed around all brassic and ballsy. Would have had to have paid me I reckon, or offered me immediately towel blanket warmth and a hot coco. I shun however good it’d be for my cardiovascular system, and how prone it is to stave off dementia — that lake looked biting. The wind pushed its ripples relentlessly northwards, the direction of our jaunt. We then headed inland, up to Orrest Head. On the way, there was a ray of sunshine. On the way, there was a horse that played hard-to-get despite G’s kindly intentions. The mixed signals steed. There was a donkey as well, but that was far more obviously ambivalent. Allegedly, Orrest Head was the first fell that Wainwright ascended when he first came upon the splendours of the Lakeland, and so it was fittingly our first ascent of the trip, and of the day. The viewpoint was windy — go figure — but laid claim to some sweet views over the lake. From there, we spent 3 or 4 hours strolling among the greenery, undulating between and along the rolling hills, across small streams, in and out of woods, with vas upon lips and shipe (sheep shite?) underfoot. Some of the farmhouses and dry-stone spots tucked away were stunning. As we walked up and through Troutbeck, we had a sense of being steeped in history, with achey old roofs offset by modern twists. Then we hit Nanny Lane, and it was up up up. Munchies (mmmm mhm yep) gave us the fuel we needed to reach the heights of Wansfell Pike — Georgie’s first Wainwright! We looked out at the lake once more, significantly more distanced now, with streams of light falling from behind clouds onto its vast body. It was an incredible view. We embraced and took some snaps and lingered for as long as felt right, before subscribing to the whole what goes up must come down malarkey. Not before, mind, pausing on the first downhill stretch to ride out a particularly vicious bout of battering wind. G actually screamed at one point. She almost pushed me down the whole Pike as well. Some way to go.
Look down some more.
Don’t lose your footing.
Don’t step off the stone onto the grass.
Oh you’ve slipped. Style it out.
It took about 30 minutes to reach Ambleside, and ended up with exactly what we wanted to end up with: two dreamy jacket potatoes in a proper northern diner, with oodles of butter and plenty of hearty filling. Life-affirming content. We walked around Ambleside for a while. It’s a very quaint little village (town?) just beyond the northern shore, but clearly attracts plenty of tourists. Back out and towards ‘home’; the ferry cost too much, so we waited for a bus. A bus came. We got on it. We got on the bus. Some nuggets of information on local history emerged from the tannoy via a voice of a fellow with a sexy croak. He said they believe that one of the bus stops on that road has the best view of any in the world, and something about likeness to Switzerland. Hey, I get it.
We warmed our bones after a solid day of hiking, and sat down to watch Hook for an hour-or-so (doozy) before cleaning up and heading for a fresh fish dinner at a place called Hooked. Exquisite. And so went the trajectory. Hiking, Hook, hardcore smiles, and Hooked. What an absolute corker…
…That turned into another. Some track record. It was a stunning final morning. Clear as anything. There was snow on the peaks in the distance and a thin layer of ice over the Mini. We drove to Bowness-on-Windermere and parked up. This town I’d been to a few times before! It sits lakeside, with geese and swan aplenty. Should you not trust your balance or legal evasion prowess enough to mount and ride them, there’s a load of boat hire and ferry options but seemingly no kayaks, much to our chagrin. Winding up in various directions of small shops, chocolatiers, munchstops etc, we reached a highly satiating fry-up and coffee in the sunshine, with a heater and blankets to match. After that, it was about walks, talks and gratitude. The views were considerably fjordish, or just resplendently symbolic of the Lake District in all its wonder. Down to the marina and back we went. You could hear the faint clink of boat masts, and over the way there was a big domed building. I imagine it has a good-size open fireplace.
The drive back was fine. I had some wings. It snowed for a bit. There’s always some faint inclination to scribe a summary or lament when you get to the end of such an account. None such needed here. It was beautiful, in varying ways and means, from start to finish. Chars.