As many of our readers know, I spent 75 hours in Scotland with Whitney and 11 like-minded middle-aged ragamuffins last weekend. Ostensibly, we went there to watch a Six Nations rugby match between Ireland and the hosts. While we did do that, and it was outstanding, the true purpose of the trip revealed itself over our time amongst the bonnie Scots.
I'd regale the lot of ya with the details of our trip, but that'd a) bore you, b) likely get repetitive, what with all the pubs and such on repeat, and c) require me to remember the details of the trip (see b), for the reason). Nay, we'll stick to the highlights, and a bunch of pictures. Mostly of the inside of pubs.
We stayed in an incredible flat in the New Town area of Edinburgh, up the hill from the Firth of Forth. New Town was built between 1767 and 1850, which'll give you a sense of the relative meaning of time in that part of the world. Walk 30 paces or so and turn right, and you got a picture perfect view of Edinburgh Castle, the most besieged place in Britain. Construction of the castle began during the 11th century, so it's a bit older than New Town.
As you walk up the hill towards the castle and cross Princes Street, the climb gets steeper, and you eventually make it to a narrow close that takes you through a warren-like set of stairs and into Old Town. The Scots spent their creativity on poetry and literature, not place-naming. Old Town is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Which we honored by drinking pints by the gallon.
Where did we tip a glass, you ask? Aye, lad - where didn't we is a better question. Here's a sampling. I'm sure I'll miss a few:
The Oxford Bar - we started here, as it's close by our flat. It's Ian Rankin's muse, among other things, and it's proper tiny. Just enough room for the 13 of us to huddle up around the fire.
The Last Drop - located in Old Town's Grassmarket, this 18th-century pub is so named because the town's gallows was situated just outside its doors, and patrons would imbibe prior to watching weekly public executions. The noose-styled sconces in the pub's windows likely wouldn't go over well here at home.
The White Hart Inn - down the block a bit from The Last Drop, the White Hart is Scotland's oldest pub. Its doors opened in 1516, and history suggests that Oliver Cromwell, William Wordsworth, and Robert Burns all sipped pints within. We did our part to extend the legend by hunkering down to watch Six Nations action (France/England and Wales/Italy) for the better part of five hours on Saturday. Man's dominion, in this case, didna' break nature's social union - nay it r'vealed companions boon.
All Bar One - a departure, this. ABO was a mere long city block from our flat, and a modern, airy bank become whiskey bar, part of a UK-based chain. We parlayed with the young and pretty of Edinburgh here more than once, though we were neither of those things. Top notch whiskey selection, friendly barkeeps, and some lively Scots to keep us laughing.
We tippled a bit a' the Rose Street Brewery, Soba Bar (a bit twee for our taste), and one or two other spots, but those four got the lion's share of our money.
What did we drink, you ask? What didna' we's a better query. But these topped the charts:
Guinness - by the gross
Tennent's - Scotland's own
Innis & Gunn - ditto
A variety of cask ales
Monkey Shoulder - a newish (2003) blended Scotch Whisky that might've been proximate to my overservin' more than once.
I suppose I should get to the main event. On Sunday, semi-bleary but invigorated by the sunshine and balmy 50 degree temps, we boarded a tram at St. Andrews Square to make the 15-minute trip to Murrayfield, home of Scottish rugby. The locals faced a formidable Irish squad, theretofore unbeaten in three Six Nations 2023 matches and ranked first in the world.
For nearly 30 minutes, the resolute Scots held their ground, leading the visitors by a 7-3 score despite the kelly green shirts banging away inside the 5m line. Finally, on 28 minutes, Ireland broke through with a try to take an 8-7 lead into the half.
Ireland were victimized by several significant injuries, and so played most of the final stanza with a prop masquerading as a hooker and a flanker throwing in on line outs. Nonetheless, they ground Scotland down in the second half in an impressive display of mental toughness and focus, winning 22-7.
As much as the match, we enjoyed the raucous atmosphere. Murrayfield is oft touted as a bit of a nervous ground, but the Scots were up for it, as were their visitors. Both sets of partisans roared their anthems, and the sound of 67,000 focused on the action was spine-tingling. Got even more fun when we boarded the tram back to the city center (after fortifying ourselves at the Guinness hospitality center) with a group of giddy Irish, who sang everything from Fields of Athenry to the Cranberries' Zombie with enthusiasm, if not perfect pitch. Including the wee lassie who gave me stick for being an American and wearing a Scotland jumper - "that's embaaarrasin'," she repeated, enthusiastically. I was too smitten to care all that much.
We closed it all out with a final few rounds at The Oxford Bar - full circle, and all. Then we sat around the flat and laughed for a bit before we had to call it a night so we could get up in time to make our flights out of Scotland. Most of us did.
And that laughter was the soundtrack of our days together. I said we went there for a rugby match. And we did. But we really went to celebrate friendship and brotherhood and silliness and memories and love and joy. That we shared in spades. I wanna go back.
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