It is Festival time here once again.Edinburgh has been swarming with tourists for the past month. And it takes ages coming back across town, across Princes Street and The Bridges on the bus. Just writing that makes me sound like a sour-tempered native.
I escaped the crowds one morning to walk down the Water of Leith. There were very few people on the more rural, Balerno stretch of the river. But the Colinton [former railway] tunnel was closed for repairs, which necessitated a lengthy detour. And then more people closer to town.
We have had visitors here. Louis and Anne passed through on their first visit to Scotland. We braved the crowds to look at the Royal Mile and the statue of John Knox in New College. And we went up Arthur’s Seat to admire the view. They left us for Glasgow, and thence to Mull and Iona before heading north towards the Highlands. The Lyon connection was carried forward by Diana on her annual visit. We went to a fringe event in St Cuthbert’s, a concert by The Really Terrible Orchestra. Largely the creation of Alexander McCall Smith. They are not as terrible as they claim. And they do, Susie tells me, audition prospective musicians these days.
Diana’s visit coincided with a visit from Pete, my oldest school-friend. One day he was asked to write an essay on All art is illusion. Discuss; and in frustration he rode away from school, permanently, on his 1960s scooter, to work on Oz magazine and Melody Maker. After which as a ‘60s entrepreneur he set up The Big O poster company. These days he runs a [very small] business producing art postcards, like the Scottish water colourists, and comes to Scotland a handful of times a year to drum up business with a few discerning bookshops.
We have been to a few Fringe shows. I am extraordinarily conservative about what we see. Many years ago my mother-in-law gave us tickets for a new play, set on a Scottish island, in which the female lead stripped off quite gratuitously after a few minutes and lay on the dining table. I’m not sure if Eileen was aware of this in advance. Other horrors include an unfunny comic from Brighton who did things with beer bottles in a very late night show at the bottom of the High Street. And some enthusiastic, but not very artistic, break dancing.
This year we took in a Beach Boys tribute band in George Street. They came all the way from Essex. I had forgotten just how repetitive all that surfing stuff is. And Surfin’ USA is a straight steal from Chuck Berry’s Sweet Little Sixteen. And we went with Mike and Wendy to hear Jacqui Dankworth singing in Stockbridge Church, accompanied by a classy pianist [her husband] and a very cool Brazilian bass player. Pete opined that she’s nothing like as good as her mum, Cleo Laine. Who is still singing, Jacqui told us, ate the age of 96.
Also in Stockbridge, but in the church hall, we saw the Soft Shoe Skiffle band; guitar, banjo, bass, and washboard. The band are, I think, even older than me. Much of what they play is from 1959, or thereabouts. I asked them to play at my 75th birthday party a few years back. But the COVID lockdown put an end to that idea, and to any party. Their guitarist and singer had a ‘minor incident’ earlier this year. But it doesn’t really matter as most of the audience know all the words.
Last night Susie’s band No Strings Attached played their inaugural Fringe concert in Broughton St Mary’s. Quite stressful for a novice clarinettist. But the music went down very well with quite a substantial audience. I am going to Murrayfield to watch Scotland v. Georgia tomorrow. We are going to a Salvation Army band concert on Sunday night. And then on Tuesday we head for Arisaig, just for one night, and then from Mallaig to the Outer Hebrides. Unlike the Ardèche, where Craig and the girls have been holidaying this past fortnight, there is little chance of heat-stroke. Nor of forest fires. Thankfully.
August 2023
Through a glass darkly 