The Jigger Inn

The Jigger Inn - The Old Course Hotel, Old Station Road, St. Andrews, Fife

I have noticed an occurrence in Britannia’s capital. Sometimes awareness is no blessing. For republicans this is a difficult time but the Ed. insisted I do a piece in honour of the happy couple. So I turn to the one area that I have in common with the HRHs, a corner of Fife, specifically the Royal Burgh of St. Andrews.

The Royal Burgh

I don’t know whether either of the couple play golf but I did, and thus the Auld Grey Toon was a place of occasional visit, especially in August when the Eden tournament took place alongside the medieval Lammas Fair. It was a bonus, to some, that summer meant no students.

It wasn’t all golf and fairground rides of course. Pubs were frequented. The first I experienced was probably Ma Bells on The Scores, the road that runs west to east away from the rear of the Royal & Ancient clubhouse. It has the reputation of being a ra-ra joint but for me then it was just a normal pub. I remember the Scottish rugby team appearing one evening during their preparations for a world cup, their physical size up-close almost comical.

Nearer the town centre and Market Street, upstairs at the Victoria Café, was a favourite meeting point. It’s now one of the G1 group, but I haven’t seen the refurb. The Balaka India restaurant was also a place for late-night drinks, but the visitor has to remember that the town has no real clubs nor any great howffs, just joints dominated by the university or the golf.

Return to The Jigger

A couple of months back I returned with The Muse, and the centrepiece of our visit was The Jigger Inn, St. Andrews’ ultimate golf pub. We had sampled a reasonable coffee in the Rusacks Hotel after being chased out of their One Under Gastro Bar. Next we made use of the suntrap of a patio outside the Playfair Restaurant/Bar on North Street before making the stroll down to The Old Course Hotel.



This five-star refuge wasn’t our destination, rather its adjoining pub, The Jigger, which sits in the hotel grounds, alongside the most famous hole in golf, the 17th. The Jigger has a whitewashed exterior that contrasts with the ugly mustard of the hotel walls. Unsurprisingly, the carpet is green, but the irreverence of the staff does shock. Maybe it’s what turns on the tourists.

Not that there’s many of those today, the pub virtually empty, a massive difference from the high summer evenings when folk rendezvoused after their respective tournament rounds and gave shot-by-shot accounts of their day, after depositing their golf bag in the pile of them by the entrance. It could get messy though. One Sunday a pal and I had had a few too many and, after leaving The Jigger, proceeded to play the 18th on the Old Course. Halfway along the fairway a middle-aged gent came running out from one of the clubhouses and swept us from the course, shouting something about the sacrilege of playing the course on a day of rest. It was an interesting scene next morning when we arrived on the first tee to find he was the official starter for the tournament.

I ordered at the compact, staff-friendly bar, and we retreated to the far corner. This nook is surrounded by old photos of the golf courses, not views of the generic type seen in many sitting rooms across the world, but originals such as one dated 1850 in which there is a yawning gap where the iconic R&A clubhouse now stands. And the row of poor dwellings lining The Links road tells of humble days before the coming of the railways – the Jigger used to be the Stationmaster’s house - and mass tourism.

Our drinks were soon accompanied by a complimentary basket of sesame sticks. A nice touch, which along with the actually quite funny banter coming from the bar staff made us feel welcome. After my initial reaction against the perceived familiarity I was growing to like the inclusiveness of the chat here, as opposed to the type of staff conversations that are conducted to the detriment of good service and ignore the presence of customers.

The interior is smaller than I recall and I don’t remember the more private area to the right as you enter, with cosy booths and smoother furniture. Maybe the rich golfers from the US and other prosperous places appreciate this more luxurious aspect to the pub or they may prefer to mingle in the main area believing they are getting something authentic. Moulton & Brown soaps and orchids in the bathrooms certainly aren’t but in St. Andrews and other tourist-faced places across the world, authentic is virtually impossible to define, let alone find.

But going back, to a time before such frivolous questions were ever considered, I gave a silent toast to Old and Young Tom Morris, the patron saints of professional golfers, whose ghosts pervade the grey streets and the land around this pub. I would be lying if I said I also raised my glass, in advance, to the wedding of William and Katherine, but let the Royals and the royalists have their day, because after all, as I look out today, there are no street parties in Knightswood.

Mansion House Glasgow - Club, Restaurant, Bar, Karaoke

Mansion House - The Glasshouse, 20 Glassford Street, Glasgow G1 1UL



Mansion House becomes Glasgow's latest compendium nightclub and resturant and bar and karaoke and comedy club

Children have it better. I didn’t believe it at the time, but no one does. Selection boxes, free food, Happy Meals, school holidays, a perfect memory, tree-climbing (no, anachronistic. Ed).

To prove my point, think of games compendiums. Never was ‘a box of delights’ a more apt description. Open it up and your eyes devour the play possibilities. Bingo, snakes and ladders, ludo, jacks, tiddly-winks and other fun board games all in one place. The more intellectual versions contained games such as chess and backgammon, but these were too adult, too soon. The real fun began when you opened the box for the first time and anticipated the hours of gaming ahead.

Adults yearn, some secretly, some not so, for these halcyon days. But sometimes the grown-up, full-scale equivalent of a compendium appears, and makes adult-life more bearable for a while. That such things mostly involve booze and/or food tells much of our grown-up preoccupations, and that we concur with George Bernard Shaw’s maxim, that alcohol is the anaesthetic for the ordeal that is life.

Café Loco @ The Arches

Glasgow can be an infantile city at night, those over a certain age pushed out of the majority of city venues by the sheer weight of numbers of folk under about 23. So, perhaps it is surprising that the city has produced a number of venues that embody the spirit of variety and discovery. Some years back, Saturday night in The Arches, was Café Loco, a variety show you might have called it, with magicians, burlesque artistes, comics and musicians performing in the many different spaces within the massive venue.

Innovative and engaging though it was, its run was short, but sweet. Ever since I’ve been looking for something similar in Glasgow, but clubs here have remained stuck in the one bar (two of you’re very lucky) and one dance floor groove, the only variety coming from the DJ’s choice of sounds.

The Club/Pub/Restaurant Hybrids

Not until a few years into the 2000s and the emergence of large pub/restaurant/club combos did the possibilities of scale appear to create the opportunity for creative proprietors to develop something more in the night space. Arta, Tiger Tiger, Tusk and others had the size but stuck to the traditional bar, eating and dance areas with no variety of theme or content.

Strangely, it was casinos that provided a new template. They always had bars and restaurants alongside the gaming but the liberalisation of gambling rules allowed them to extend their ambitions. The Alea on the Clyde was a far larger affair than any of Glasgow’s previous casinos. Different levels, three large bars and a destination restaurant in a venue designed to be more than just a casino, rather a centre of nightlife.

Corinthian, a stalwart of the previous generation of large venues, was remodelled last year (as detailed in a previous blog of mine), and one of the most striking elements was the introduction of gaming tables on the ground floor. For the owners G1 Group, not only would the casino element bring in revenue of itself, but the licensing of the venue would change too. It is allowed open until 6am as opposed to 3am.

Different themed spaces throughout the building add to the variety. A subterranean club, a craft beer bar, a grand main restaurant, a whisky bar, a champagne and fashion bar, a piano bar and numerous private party rooms offer the visitor diversity in one place, whether for one night or several. Corinthian has built upon these options by now hosting fashion events, art exhibitions, seasonal celebrations, burlesque performances

Stefan King’s empire had, a year or so earlier, begun the multiformity concept with Hummingbird on Bath Street. The upstairs party pods are the main novelty here, themed rooms for private hire, with extravagant décor and fittings, karaoke kits, private drinks service, even fancy-dress wardrobes.

Downstairs there is less of interest, a neo-gothic hall and main bar and Balearic basement joint (now Diskoteka) constrained somewhat by the size and shape of the building, which is basically a townhouse.

From Tiger Tiger to Mansion House




This year’s version of a compendium venue is Mansion House on Glassford Street. Previously, the afore-mentioned, Tiger Tiger, this place has the advantage of a large building – The Glasshouse - a scale which dwarfs venues such as Hummingbird.

As Tiger Tiger, for over a decade, the venue was a huge bar/club complex with a downstairs dancefloor reminiscent of a student-union disco which didn’t fit with the high-roller pretensions of the rest of the place. Aside from the main bar area on the ground floor, most of the action seemed to centre around the VIP bar upstairs. Unlike most of these areas this was a large space with plenty of scope to include plebs like me who weren’t quite the glitterati.

However, fun wasn’t always on the cards in Tiger Tiger. On one Hogmanay, some slipshod door-policy had let in clientele intent on doing more than just celebrating The Bells. These folk had kindred spirits in the bouncers themselves, itching to pull the trigger, as it were.

The tension rose all night, not even the Hogmanay songs could dissipate it. But just as I thought we would see out the night without any real trouble, my cousin and I were involved in a cloakroom argument that led to us being violently ejected out onto the street by enthusiastic door staff. I ended up face down with what felt like half-a tonne of bouncers on my back. The pavement didn’t taste or smell too good. But having left the premises, I missed the best of the show, a full-on mass brawl between the whole team of bouncers and a similarly psyched-up gang of customers. Not long afterwards I wasn’t sad to hear that the door manger was allegedly forced to leave our fair city because of his rough treatment of the son of a connected man. Interesting times.



Mansion House is built

It’s good to report that with the re-branding these security issues seem to have disappeared and I can get on with the interesting stuff. On the ground floor there are two bars. First the understated Merchants that, although offering a cocktail list, concentrates more on craft and session beers. The décor is uninspiring, just a notch above a Wetherspoons offering, and although I like darkened drinking rooms, this could do with opening the valves on the lighting.

Through a curtain is the main offering, Jewel. This bar harks back to the feel of Tiger Tiger, with chandeliers, studded black leather seating and purple illumination. Unfortunately, it shares with Merchants the fake exposed brick behind the bar. This has been done to death by too many bars to mention. Both of them would have benefited from a decent attempt to construct a gantry, behind the counter in both looks too bare.

Jewel must aim to attract the cocktail crowd but its list - at fifteen and two champagne versions - seems to be no more extensive than any of the other bars in Mansion House. The large number of shooters on the list perhaps shows the intentions better, the effect rather than taste. On our first visit we sampled some of the cocktails, a Cerbera and a Long Cosmopolitan our choices. The mixes were fine, flavours as should be, but the service was less assured, as if the staff were not fully aware of the range they offered. There could be trouble ordering anything off-list.

In the basement they have a Jongleurs franchise. I haven’t yet been down for a show and no one was available to give me free peek downstairs but friends of mine who do actually believe comedy and nights out go together, tell me the recent line-ups have been good, and that local lad Scott Agnew is on next week – hilarious, they tell me. Whether that’s true or not, there is at least plenty of space down there, and hopefully no one will be ejected for heckling.

Unsurprisingly, The Glasserie restaurant makes full use of the large glass frontage overlooking, ahem, Glassford Street. Décor-wise the seating looks comfortable but they’ve overdone the pastel colours. It wouldn’t be straying too much beyond my brief to say that the menu is full of classic Scottish dishes like Cock a Leekie Terrine and Haggis Dumplings. More in my sphere is the wine list, notable inclusions being Chianti Piazzano and Rioja Cosecha from Saigoba.

The attractions on the first floor include Kanaola, Mansion House’s take on the tiki bar, the south sea beach bar theme phenomenon that has reached the UK years after it began in the States. Kanaola adds little to the collection but for some reason a Far Eastern influence creeps in.

Adjacent is Lucky Voice, the karaoke area. This too seems to be a franchise. Some of the remaining Tiger Tiger clubs have taken Lucky Voice, and you can in your home as well, for as little as £49.99/year! Other than the fact you can download the system on to your home PC and that it has over 8000 songs and touch screen technology I can’t see the innovation here, despite the impressive press coverage it has received.

But the numbers told their own story on my two visits with countless parties waiting for their sessions in the pods. We sat in the waiting room/bar wondering initially, what the fuss was, as folk congregated at the counter that looks a bit like reception in a sunbed salon. Once I fully realised, I shepherded our party out, to leave the singers to their fun, grateful the pods were soundproofed and neither Michael Caine nor Jane Horrocks had appeared.

You see, when I’m drinking I mostly prefer fully-canned music to any sort of untidy live stuff. And the final game within this adult games-boc offers vintage music of just that sort. Groovy Wonderland is the name. A bit obvious maybe, but it leaves you in no doubt what you are entering. An authentic 70s and 80s disco with flashing dancefloor, stainless-steel banisters, disco balls and booths straight out of Saturday Night Fever or Scarface. The music matches the look exactly, the selection can be a bit repetitive but it retains a good mix of the classic, the cheesy, and the hip – even the words should be of the era.

Groovy has its own extra selection of cocktails all served in large fresh fruits. I don’t know what the lady beside me ordered on my latest visit. She gave the barmaid a gesture of pints to the mouth much like English lager louts used to employ. No words were spoken but up came this strawberry or raspberry coloured concoction, which she proceeded to gulp. Good service that. I declined the chance to taste the mixture, however.

But whatever you fancy gulping, stand and watch the choreographed dancers or roller-skate girls doing their thing on the dancefloor. It’s illuminating. And you may stay for longer than you expect. We did.

So the latest in club compendiums offers you comedy to karaoke, cocktails to craft beers, retro to 21st century bling, relaxed fine dining to unrestrained singing and dancing. It might not take you back to childhood, but at least there are no rules to learn, because if you don’t know them by now, you never will.

Nestling Up To The Jack

Victoria Park Bowling Club, 1284 Dumbarton Road, Glasgow G14 9EU




People used to scoff at bowling clubs and their elderly clientele. But whether it’s a growing awareness of the latest ‘ism, ageism, or the widespread constraints on entertainment spending, things may be changing down on the green.

I watched bowls on TV when a youngster. Even then, my grandfather would be telling us that it was becoming a young man’s sport. My brother and I would nod dutifully, while watching David Bryant - the master bowler with a hint of devil in him- puff on his pipe, looking anything but youthful. But it didn’t put us off taking out the carpet bowls later in the evening to bash the hell out of the skirting boards.

I knew my grandparents spent at least half of their evenings out at the bowling club, that and the Yarrow Shipbuilders social club. Even I enjoyed, if that’s the word, a night at the former club, a kid’s night when each child did a ‘turn’ to get a prize. Excruciating for a non-exhibitionist like myself, but I got through it. I forget my party piece, but do recall a fat boy’s rendition of a Sydney Devine classic.

On TV I was also exposed to the Crown Green version of the sport, mostly practised in the NW of England. Huge Blackpool crowds thronged round the lawn, people going in and out of the clubhouses. Even in my young days the scene was exciting, not for the sport, but for the speculation at what was going on in the hostelries, what mysterious concoctions were the spectators ordering, what was the buzz going in inside, away from the cameras.

But these distant memories were far from the front of my mind, walking head down in the rain to Victoria Park Bowling Club on a windy, wet, recent winter evening. It was a close neighbour’s birthday surprise party so The Muse and I were happy to enjoy the celebration and I was also keen to investigate whether clubs such as these are proving to be an alternative nightlife for the wider population in the recession.

High hedges shield the clubhouse and its green from the noise and fumes of Dumbarton Road at the border between Scotstoun and Whiteinch. In the spring and summer it becomes a natural haven from the dirt outside but in the middle of a harsh winter when everything is dank and dripping and the lawns are sodden, covered in muddy leaves and out of use, there is nowhere to linger but in the clubhouse, despite the mini-marquee that sits just outside, a leftover, no doubt, from an earlier celebration.




The clubhouse is a low, roughcast building. Not particularly inviting but functional, just like buildings housing social and sports clubs across the country. Looks like it was a fifties/sixties build. Inside is similar, designed to do a job, hosting a variety of functions from christenings to diamond anniversaries, race nights to children’s ice cream and jelly parties, if those things still take place.

So you have the practical half laminate, half carpet flooring and the DJ inlet. Our DJ for the night wasn’t too brilliant, but he did manufacture himself the chance to go through his gamut of local rivalry jokes, e.g. How can you tell when a Yoker girl has an orgasm? She drops her chips. Ok, so he didn’t actually use that one, but I like it. The jokes he did tell got laughs from the Scotstoun and Knightswood clientele and vice versa. His music mix was fine, keeping the generations happy.

The bar area is functional too. Depending on requirements and numbers, the full counter can be utilised or just the hatch at the side, allowing the room to be partitioned for different functions or meetings.

The prices are, of course, cheap but not perhaps as good as I’d expected, just about on a par with a reasonable pub like The Grove in Finnieston. Neat spirits are the best value, mixers and pints less so. They give you the ice bucket and water jug to add as you see fit, a difference from most public houses.

With all these fittings in place and a good crowd, the evening’s celebrations went well. Strangers could have walked in and joined the party and no one would have been the wiser. But none would arrive. So both the venue and the potential customers lose out, on an income stream and another option for drinking respectively.

At the back of ten o’clock the average age of the party told – it was a 70th after all – and the urns of tea began to appear. My cue for an exit. Initially, just for a cigar, but the absence of anyone outside willing to discuss my theories on clubs and pubs, and the proximity of Granny Gibbs, made me leave the club’s grounds and cross the main road.

I’ve reviewed Granny’s before, and despite its limitations, I have a soft spot for the place, even though its large interior is antithetical to encouraging a decent atmosphere. On this Saturday night there was a buzz inside, but perhaps this was more to do with the stomach-full of whisky chasers swirling within me. There were a couple of groups sat at tables, which could be described as middle-aged girls’ nights out. All were enjoying the sounds from the singer, Neil Diamond his speciality. A pity there weren’t more people in to enjoy his renditions.

Taking my time over this drink I pondered. Maybe I should invite those in here over to the bowling club, so at least one place was full. But the folk in here would have looked at me just as funny as those in the club had I marched in with my new friends behind me.

At the end of the evening, shivering in the adjacent bus stop waiting for a taxi or the alleged last bus (No. 9), I thought quickly (before other issues crowded out logic) about sports clubs. They aren’t yet stepping in to take the market lost by pubs. Maybe they don’t want to. Or maybe it just isn’t there, it’s sitting at home.

Pelican Crossing

The Pelican Cafe, 1377 Argyle Street, Glasgow G3 8AF



It appears to be the dream location.Opposite Scotland’s third most popular tourist attraction, the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Around a million people come to this area just to visit the gallery. Sacrilegious it may be, but I think the exhibits are a bit disappointing after the magnificence of the Spanish Baroque exterior, but leaving that aside, these visitors must need to eat and drink when they are here? Right?

There’s an eatery inside (unlicensed so beyond my scope), beside the gift shop but it is a very ordinary affair, not up to the sophisticated restaurants at Tate Modern or even the Baltic in Gateshead. But it is family-friendly and must be satisfying the huge majority of visitors because none of them seem to be going outside for refreshment.

Even before the vigorous re-marketing of the Art Galleries a few years back, bars and restaurants had struggled in this small stretch of Kelvingrove. Lack of adjacent parking may be part of the problem, along with its isolation from more recognised bar drags, but whatever the reasons no one’s hopping across the road from the Art Galleries.

In the last month or so, the latest attempt at setting up a standard pub, The Lock-Inn (very boring name), has failed, the fourth or fifth such closure in as many years. And even the local chippy, Café Orlando, is up for let. Along a bit, Mother India Café continues to prosper with its Indian take on tapas, but curry houses follow different rules, a good one will attract customers despite its location.

Situated in-between these two differing degrees of success The Pelican Café arrived in the second half of 2010 at an address previously occupied by such diverse pub operations as The Regent Moray, The Kelvin and the odious Spud Mulligans. When the Pelican first opened, with a simple, bold, green signage, I thought it was the kind of café selling knickerbockers glories, nougats and 99ers. But no, the café appendage refers to the continental approach: good food and drink in a casual yet sophisticated setting. A bar/bistro in other words, as it does actually say on the sign.

And the word is, the food is good, with a heavy accent on seafood and Scottish fare. Here we go again, you might be saying, locally sourced, seasonal, bla bla bla… but here I think they mean it, the reference to Robbie Galbraith the fisherman – and rumoured to be fishmonger in Glasgow soon – is particularly telling and indicative of commitment to the actuality rather than just the idea. Instead of the usual starter, main etc the menu features small plates, then large plates, another continental touch which is interesting in that… but hey, no more food talk, my self-imposed parameters and present budgetary constraints mean I must concentrate upon the drinks side of things and the look and feel of the place.

For somewhere now open a good few months the interior still looks unfinished. On both visits of mine boxes have been left lying around in corners of the room, easily visible to customers. Bottles of wine in the high wall rack have price tags attached, intentional I presume, but still untidy. Along with the very loud banging door, these are small details gone wrong, leading to a less comfortable experience.

The wine rack brings me to Pelican’s main marketing device. They offer two ways of enjoying their wide range of wines, spirits and beers. Retail ie take-away (carry-oot) or sit-in with corkage: £5 for a bottle of wine, £1 per beer bottle. Value and choice are the intended attractions here, I think. But I call it a device because they could just as practically have operated with an off-licence, as some pubs have done over the years, instead of this confusing price structure i.e. do you take off or add on £5 to the drinks list you are handed, which differs from the online list, by the way. And where do the draught lagers, spirit measures and glasses of vino fit into this system?




However, they are offering some definite bargains here, such as Chimay Red for £3.10 (sit in), Kasteel Cru at £2.85 and Samuel Adams Boston Lager at £2.95. Draught beer prices are reasonable too but it is the range that grabs the attention. Anchor Steam Beer is an unusual and welcome feature, Sierra Nevada too. And the Menebrea from Sicily is completely new to me. As it happens, a clean taste but rather bland on the palate. The wine selection is similarly wide, imaginative and comprehensive.

Despite the drawbacks I’ve mentioned, this type of off-licence selling may set a trend, allowing customers extra choice and giving proprietors a new income stream. I highlighted this very opportunity a few weeks back, tweeting about how, if legislators are flexible, bars could follow the example of coffee shops that double as delicatessens.

On the afternoons I’ve visited, Pelican has been quite busy, the atmosphere helped by the open hatch to the bustling, lively kitchen, a feature overdone nowadays, but in here you see why it was such good idea in the first place. At night, it still has some way to go to attract a decent amount of customers, even with its attractive backlit blue lettering offering a beacon of hope and grog for thirsty passers-by.

In the meantime it has to preserve the clientele it has gathered so far, through good service and surroundings. I’ve mentioned the unfinished look already but the problems don’t end there. Much of the interior is finished in a wood that looks like teak, and that includes the bar counter which despite the leftover baubles, a fancy lamp and, in fact, any amount of bling, is cheap looking. Not helped by the dead flowers either. A pet hate of The Muse, that one.

The service been ok on my visits, lacking some finesse perhaps but fairly forthcoming. It isn’t easy for the staff though, moving around in the confined space between tables packed too close to each other. And recently, Kid N, who ordered tap water to go with his chips, was given a refill without having to ask for it. A first for a Glasgow pub ever since I’ve been taking notes.

However, some people don’t have the countenance for front of house. Their expression speaks of disapproval, suspicion even, of their customers. It may not reflect their thoughts, maybe they’re just concentrating, but it isn’t good to see. The person in question here is one of the owners, Jason Harvie. A wine merchant to trade – which explains the wide-ranged list - perhaps he should remain in the background applying his undoubted expertise anonymously. His name had been mentioned during an earlier visit of mine, a noisy sales rep enquiring as to his presence. As a customer sipping a drink, trying to relax between , it was another unwanted glimpse of the machinery of this bar. The distinction between front and back of house is there for a reason.

Parallels can be drawn between the Pelican Café and other relatively recent ventures such as Nick’s and Epicures in Hyndland, and the late Alan Mawn’s Velvet Elvis and Criterion Café in Thornwood. All food-based, ambitious bar/diners aiming to sell premium drinks to accompany their organic fare, in sophisticated settings. The Thornwood and Hyndland operations have transformed two previously quiet stretches and Pelican’s aim may be to do the same. To do so it has to acquire the settled, assured look of its contemporaries.

Long Hazy Festival Days

Hector's, 47-49 Deanhaugh Street, EH4 1LR
The Bailie, 2-4 St. Stephen Street, EH3 5AL
The Cumberland Bar, 1-3 Cumberland Street, EH3 6RT
The Arcade Bar, 48 Cockburn Street, EH1 1PB
Jinglin' Geordie, 22 Fleshmarket Close, EH1 1QA
The Halfway House, 24 Fleshmarket Close EH1 1BX
Hawke & Hunter, 12 Picardy Place, EH1 3JT



In the middle of this mercurial winter, it sometimes helps the soul to return to warmer days. This time I’ve picked the last Edinburgh Festival to revisit. A world-famous cultural extravaganza, but you know the drill; pubs come first, despite the distractions of shows, plays, comedy, opera, concerts and other performances:

To aid our determination to be conscientious, single-minded reviewers The Muse and I head to Stockbridge for Saturday lunchtime, just out of the city-centre maelstrom for a while at least. Locals still quaintly refer to Stockbridge as a village; an anachronistic notion amidst a 21st century city but it holds some meaning.

Down the hill from the main New Town it does feel a bit different, operating at a slightly slower pace from the rest of Town. Independent shops are more visible here and the scene at the road bridge over the Water of Leith is easily transported in one’s mind back to earlier days of horse and cart or Victorian perambulators.

Hector’s on the corner of Deanhaugh Street and St. Bernard’s Row is, though, very much a modern hang-out. Comfortable dark leather couches along with a generous smattering of tables and chairs, bundles of flyers occupying any flat surface, gig posters pinned to the space that remains. Coffee is as much a favourite here as beer and the vibe in is more of a Sunday morning than of a day earlier, this despite me overhearing the tales of a regular not home yet after a long hard night. Makes me jealous.

No time to dwell on it though because we have a lunch reservation at the basement Italian, La Concha. The food is reasonable, for the fixed menu, but the restaurant is very quiet. So much so that I don’t feel like a port in here. Nor a ship in a storm. We leave for The Bailie.

I need no extra reason for partaking of The Bailie’s charms. Since discovering it last year it has easily reached my Top Ten all-time list. Its superb corner basement location, allowing scope for a raised smoking area and cellars hewn out beneath the road, places you at the heart of the bustling local scene. The interior is dark and music-free but doesn’t detract from its hospitality, a party, of sorts, could spark up anytime. I was enjoying my Deuchars digestif, thinking that, in here, you can order a fine malt or Burgundy as comfortably as you can a beer. The Muse was the one in the rush now, though, hurrying me on with the reminder of our appointment with a friend.



But instead of heading back up towards the city centre I lead her east along St. Stephen Street, then Cumberland Street, to the bar of the same name. “We have the time,” I assure her, as we walk through the mews-land of lower New Town. The Cumberland comes with a good reputation and here on my first visit I appreciate the very clean interior and the large beer garden a level down. The couple of nooks off-shooting the main bar area could lend the night-time Cumberland an extra slice of atmosphere that it needs to rival nearby dens such as Kay’s and The Star Bar.

We won’t find out this weekend because we’re off again, up the hill towards the heart of things at last. Up Hanover Street and The Mound, left on to High Street. We have a call. Our friend is running late, a reversal of roles. But we use it to our advantage, stopping in at The Advocate at the top of Blair Street. As soon as we’re in I’m wanting out. It’s one of these fake traditional places with plastic menus and drinks’ offers. There’s huge interior and downstairs toilets that are as hard to find as the centre of the Cretan labyrinth, all indicators of a chain pub. But at least it’s not a Wetherspoons. The Muse strokes my back, and that helps, as do the reasonably cheap prices and a barman who actually seems keen to talk, without too much prodding, about bar life during the Festival.

But I’ve a reputation to keep so we’re out and away down the street to the temporary bar at the C Soco venue. Bare boards, plastic seating and a rickety tent in case of rain wouldn’t normally do it for me, but context is everything. During these few weeks the atmosphere in these makeshift boozers is unique, whether those round about Cowgate or the bigger spaces down near the university. And, if it is your thing, you can celeb-spot. But we frown upon that; the Festival is nothing if not egalitarian.

Our pal soon appears and I give him an account of our day so far, and he tries to fill us in on his recent exploits. After a bit, he’s off, disappearing into the back of the adjacent tenement where his next show is – comedy reviewing being his bag, a more established form of writing than my own.

Some time later we are on Cockburn Street, specifically The Arcade Bar. The entrance is actually from the close above the street, the downstairs half of the joint somehow familiar, maybe somewhere I entered for a short while last century. Upstairs is, though, definitely new. Its speciality is vodka, in many flavours. This tells of both the enduring popularity of this versatile spirit and the Eastern European influence upon Scotland and its drinking habits. Of course, these flavours mean there’s no need for a mixer. Confusing, for some less cosmopolitan drinkers. We have two of the fruit flavours.




I realise this is the pivotal point of the day, as the afternoon merges with the evening. It could all end here, via a long bus journey west, or we could delve on into the night. To ensure the latter, I take The Muse down my favourite close, Fleshmarket. Dropping steeply down this historic passageway, which leads eventually to Waverley Station, I cannot decide between Jinglin’ Geordie or The Halfway House. So we have a wee drop of our native spirit in each. Again, The Halfway just about shades it, mostly because of its more interesting interior shape and slightly better service.

Reinvigorated, we choose to leave the Old Town, through the station and across Princes Street into West Register Street. The Café Royal, as indicated by its name, is commonly seen as the city’s grandest pub of long-standing. Certainly the plasterwork and panelling in here catches the eye, giving it a theatrical air, and as close as we come in this country to fin de siecle.

I feel though that it can veer to complacency, the service a little too lackadaisical and the regulars careless in the way they move past us. So much so that we are getting pushed further and further towards the restaurant, the seafood aromas making us wish we had planned an oyster stop here rather than a burger half an hour ago.

My previous visit to Auld Reekie had included a visit to Hawke & Hunter, the hotel/club on Picardy Place. Unfortunately I had arrived too early on that occasion, before any of the building’s hospitality rooms had opened. Not this time. The Muse was reluctant to leave The Café but I enticed here with the delights waiting at H&H.

Cocktails were what I meant, and they do serve them in H&H’s cocktail bar, of course. But not with any great aplomb, or attention. The décor wasn’t impressing my partner either. Everything’s pale but uninteresting. An attempt at futuristic we think, but it’s more Blake’s Seven than 2001. We sit at a table but are soon informed it has been reserved. This, in a place almost totally empty. It adds to the feeling that because we aren’t on friendly terms with the manager nor from around here, it is held against us.

To confirm this, the reserve holders arrive and immediately start whispering to the staff and pointing in our direction. They look like they are from Prince Willie’s set, the kind that still terrorise ordinary punters on George Street and surroundings. The Muse is up for a fight but I’m actually happy to have an excuse to leave, despite not sampling the Below Stairs club or the Secret Garden smoking area. Smiling sweetly, we leave them to it.

Our last stop happens to be Tempus, a large bar on George Street, mostly because The Muse’s high heels have at last got the better of her. It’s an unremarkable place, but busy, even for the Festival. What also catches our attention is the amount of folk coming and going from downstairs. It takes a while but we eventually realise the bar is part of The George Hotel, the ballroom hosting the last night of the Television Festival.

So down we go. The only face I spot is the cultural commentator and early Sloane Ranger, Peter York. (Think of a better-turned-out Jonathan Meades). As I would have expected he is immaculate in his cashmere suit, ultra-thin watch on his slim wrist. And that’s it. Everything else a bit of a blur apart from recollections of The Muse persuading me to photograph her with Malachy from Hollyoaks (since deceased). Okay, it dents the pride a little, but it’s that kind of evening when such things can be overlooked.

I mentioned distractions at the beginning of this piece. And we did succumb; to an innovative production of one of my favourite authors, Franz Kafka’s, more famous short stories, Metamorphosis. Some scaffolding and acrobatic actors helped the potentially problematic depiction of a human beetle. The play was largely a success, I felt, just like our day.