My father used to come here. I never understood football much, and therefore it is a place I associate with him. Scottish pubs have an atmosphere of their own, and I can remember the smell of spilled ale and cigarette smoke from the years when it was allowed. If I close my eyes I can hear the roar of crowds from the nearby stadium, the feeling of high spirits and tension that soon would spill out into the deserted streets. Today it is quiet, with only the murmur of passing traffic and a solitary gull. In one direction is Georgie, one of Edinburgh’s swallowed villages, in the other the West End. The evocative scent of brewing hops hangs like a cloud of porridge in the sky, from the brewery a short distance away. A souvenir of Edinburgh.
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Andrew Reid Wildman, Scottish Artist living in France 