The Scotsman Lounge: aka the Irish Embassy of Edinburgh

Just got back to the hostel, have a beer from the bar here and thought I'd sign in for a few happy-drunken rambles.

We went out on the town this evening (after spending most of the day exploring Edinburgh Castle--fantastic!), but there was a differing of opinions as to what constitutes a fun evening. Justin and his bro were looking for a good alternative rock bar, but as we walked past a place called "The Scotsman Lounge" which had a live group doing pub songs, I decided to part ways with them for the night. No point in dragging them along, any more than dragging myself along with them if someone was going to end up not having a good time.

Now, I want to point out, braggingly a bit, that one thing I've gotten out of being over here is a vastly-improved ability to quickly distinguish between the accents of other various English-speaking countries. The Scottish accent has been incredibly and obviously very different from the Irish, and I've had no problem very quickly identifying Irish accents when I hear them here in Edinburgh.

But I really didn't need such skills when I walked in the door of The Scotsman Lounge. While the group singing was obviously Scottish, a good quarter of the crowd were wearing GAA jerseys... Counties Cork, Dublin, Sligo, Laois, and Tyrone at the least were all well represented, as well as Leinster and Munster as provinces. Though I should mention that being able to identify those jersies does take a certain degree of Celtophilia as well, as in the GAA standard, county names on jerseys are exclusively in Irish. Corcaigh, Baile Átha Cliath (Dublin), Sligeach, Tír Eoghain... between the Irish names and the county colors, I was able to identify them all.

I was only a might bummed not to see any Maroon and White of my "own" Gallimh to share a quick 'Up Galway!' with, as I would give a 'Go Blue' to any maize-and-blue clad fan run across during travels.

Just as I knew the jerseys, I knew the songs... Though a few well-known Scottish tunes were mixed in, they were smartly playing to the mainly-Irish crowd with such pub favorites as Whiskey in the Jar, I'll Tell Me Mar, and of course, the namesake of this very blog, The Rattlin' Bog.

Sure, you might think it a bit silly to spend my time in Scotland in a pub that was effectively Irish , but its not like I couldn't hear any great alternative rock at home, or in the Roisin Dubh in Galway, either. I do hope to find a pub that has some good live traditional Scottish music, but I'm really not sure it is embraced here the way the tradition is embraced in Ireland.

I will say, however, that the town has been nearly littered with Highland pipers out busking for a few coins. One particular piper stationed himself on the Royal Mile just outside the gates to the castle this afternoon, and was absolutely fantastic. But as we stood on the defence platforms overlooking the city of Edinburgh, pipe music could be heard coming from at least 3 or 4 different locations in the city spanning below us.

That made me smile.

I also saw an exhibit on the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo which takes place for 21 days each August, and I must say I've added that to my list of things I must see and do before I die. A fantastic, dramatic display of music, dance, culture and military precision, set in the esplanade just outside the gates, with the castle in the dramatic background, it brings an international flare with countries from all over the world participating. The US Army's 'Pershing's Own' Band has performed, as well as the USMC jazz band, plus music and drill outfits from over 40 other countries. Jamaican military steel drum bands, Russian drill teams in mock sword fights, the Swedish Guard with their extremely precise drumline... and many more. It looks to be quite the spectacle!

While walking back to the hostel, I tried one last time to reach Dad to wish him a Happy Father's Day. I'd tried several times earlier in the day, but the calls were not going through. Apparently maybe I just needed to be drunk enough to randomly push the right buttons to over-ride whatever call routing thing was prohibiting the calls from going through earlier.

So, I managed to have Dad 'accompany' me back to the hostel along Prince St. underneath the misty-cloud obscured castle which looms over the city on Father's Day, apparently making both of our days.

As unworthy of any hyperbole these past 3 months have been, I am definitely looking forward to being home again with friends and family where I belong.