Meet Me At the Pub

So, as you may have realized in my last post, Edinburgh is currently pretty insane. Really insane. Ok, not as insane as London was a couple nights ago, but a civil insanity bent, not on destruction and chaos, but on art and turning streets upside down for creative reasons. And, as I so blatantly stated, I am not enjoying this.

However, all is not lost in this higgledy-piggledy town. There are bastions of peace and tranquility, at least comparatively. Pockets untouched by the festival where citizens can get away from the tourists, the students, the gawkers, and the performers and sink back into the middle-class quiet and respectability Edinburgh likes to pride itself on for the other 11 months of the year. One of these pockets happens to be the part of town that contains my favorite pub: Bennets Bar.

I was first alerted to Bennets by my beloved advisor. (Postgrad advisors are so much more than academic guides.) It's his "local" and so one afternoon we popped in after a chat in the office. (One thing I love about grad school, and especially grad school in Britain/Europe is the complete acceptability of having an amiable drink with a professor.) This place is brilliant. According to Michael Fry, it's one of only 5 pubs in the city that maintains its Victorian (1890s, specifically) layout and style. And sure enough, the ceiling, the glasswork, even the ladies' side bar are all still there. The seating area opposite the bar is done in little pseudo-alcoves around small round tables, so it has a cosy, intimate feel no matter where you sit. Even better? They stock a large number of whiskies, including obscure ones.

This past Tuesday, I stopped in to Bennets for some me time. A pint of Timothy Taylor, a dram of Edradour (Scotland's smallest distillery), me and my journal at one of the wee tables. The weather was disgusting - it's been more like a wet fall than a summer here lately - but with one sip of the Edradour and a look around, it was easy to forget all the stress and cold and dissertation and festival. The colors from the internal stained glass give the whole place a happy feel, and if you try hard enough, you can almost feel like you're in a cheerful, warmer version of the Saint Chapel in Paris. Sitting there, soaking in the place, made me realize that there is one thing you cannot, under any circumstances, in any way, fault the Brits for: pub culture. People here can sometimes (especially to an American) come off as pompous, fake or just obnoxious. But once you walk into a pub, that melts away.  All those annoying little quirks dim and a cheerfulness seeps in. Everything takes on the warmth and color of an amber beer, or a Speyside whisky (my fave region, for the record). Conversation lightens and loosens and people get positively jovial. Even the women drinking half pints, as if they, too, are left-over from the Victorian era, give off a charm you can't seem to find anywhere else.

So here's to Bennets. And whisky. And Scottish pubs. May we always have one around when life gets to be too much.