Something about the dusty pink exterior always draws me towards it. Why shouldn’t I go and see what they have displayed behind their glass counter? Why shouldn’t I have a sandwich for my second lunch? The Life of Bryan looks good, with salami and pecorino, roasted peppers and chilli oil, the crispy focaccia tantalising the taste buds as the scent drifts through from the kitchen. Although, the Sweet Baby Jane is right there with her sun dried tomatoes, pesto chicken, the soft crunch of pine nuts and squishy decadence of brie. The staff chatter and laugh as they work, and who doesn’t want to see people happy at their job?
I couldn’t decide which one to get, so I settled for both. I’m a growing boy, I tell myself, if Merry and Pippin Took can do it, so can I.
Now the question is where to sit. The view across the Water of Leith is idyllic, so of course the seats by the window are taken, but… there’s a perfectly good quayside just across the cobbled street. Armed with two sandwiches too many and an iced coffee to cool me off, bags falling off my shoulder and jacket tied loosely around my waist, I wobble my way over the road and plonk myself down.
Both sandwiches were the correct choice. Of course it sent me into a bit of a food coma, but with the sun beating down, the ducks paddling about, quacking in despair that I hadn’t brought them any snacks, I didn’t mind sitting a while.
Across the way a man flicks and swishes a fraudulent fly across the surface of the water, his fishing rod a brilliant red. The ducks seem to know him; they stay clear of his flies’ flightpath, though no fish seem to bite despite the lack of webbed feet. He stays despite this, flicking to and fro, the sun on his face and a slight, cooling breeze.
A couple, or I assume a couple, join me on the quayside, laughing quietly as they slowly lower themselves, trying desperately not to lose their pints into the waters below. I can see the condensation bead on the plastic of their cups, can almost taste the crisp citra of the beer. I glance back across the road to the green fronted pub, its success made evident by the old world windows, the ancient front door, and the crowd which had begun to gather outside it.
As good as a pint would be… I had come into town for a non-sandwitch, non-beer related reason. I’ll get one after, though, I promise the out of sight keg.
Fortunately, the folk that brought me into town were just around the corner. I gather myself, my things and my rubbish, and hustle my way around the corner; ten paces in all. Stooping to not hit my head on the 5 foot doorframe, my inner magpie squawks in delight at the array of things before me.
Every surface is lined with small ceramic ghosts, jewelry of all varieties (so long as they’re adequately spooky), crystals and candles. Art occupies every other space,the walls lined with every style I could want. It’s the perfect shop to find something interesting for a gift. And that I did.
Just inside the door was a gathering of small tulle bags, one easily sitting in the palm of your hand. Within each bag was the collection of ghosts, barely the size of your pinky nail, their small teardrop bodies gently glittering in the low light. There were six in all, their form lightly clinking as I lifted the bag and brought it to the counter.
Pleased with my purchase, and finally recovering from my sandwiches, I rounded the corner again, headed back to the beckoning pub. Outside and in I found nothing but friendly faces, people of all kinds there for the same thing, to enjoy their libations while the sun deigned Scotland with its glorious light.
– Danny
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