Play on.
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
Sandy Bells is one of the many Edinburgh pubs in which I have had the pleasure of passing time, but it stands out for several reasons. One of them being, that it is remarkably old, and has been attracting thirsty patrons for more than half a century. Second, it is tiny. Really, really small. Probably about six or seven feet from the front of the bar to recessed, misted windows, and maybe... twenty feet from the door to the back? When you pack about forty people into that space, suddenly it is steamy, the damp air redolent of warm bodies and whiskey and heavy IPA beers, and verging on claustrophobic. Thank goodness people there are almost universally friendly and squeezing past people results in grins and 'Aye, dinnae worry' rather than discomfort or offense. The most memorable aspect of this tiny little pub, however, is the music.
Every single night, and all afternoon on Sundays, a group of musicians gathers in the back of the pub, each gets themselves a pint, and they begin to play. Old men with epic mustaches and clever hands, boys with floppy hair and swift, light rhythms, middle aged women with bright eyes and long hair that brushes the sides of their fiddles as they coax melodies from the strings, a lonely banjo player always just outside the circle, a pair of laughing drummers persuading reluctant feet to tap... The tunes are not pre-determined, and there are different people playing every night; anyone with an instrument and half a pinch of talent can sit down and join in. One will start a song, and after a few seconds of head-nodding and quiet plucking, the rest join in. Once when I was there, a group of eight was playing; the next time, only two. They play traditional celtic music - reels and jigs and walking songs, fast and quick and complicated. This has been going on for decades, my friends, and still every night people gather to talk quietly, and to sit or, more likely, stand, listening.
I've been lucky enough to spend a few nights there, first with Victoria during her visit, and later with my Macalester friend, Katherine. It was particularly busy when Katherine and I were there - a friday night, packed to the gills, with the usual brand of clientele all crammed together like sardines. There are always a fair number of students around, which makes sense considering that it is about a minute from the center of campus and the whiskey is always discounted, quite apart from the music. Usually there are a fair number of grey heads in that crowd as well, however, older Scottish gentlemen with thick accents and well-cut wool coats (try saying that five times fast: well-cut-wool-coats...) to keep off the cold, and they always seem vaguely amused at our presence; even before we open our mouths and betray our American heritage they seem to know that we do not belong. Perhaps we just exude foreign? Or perhaps they give the raised-eyebrows-you-don't-really-know-what-you-are-drinking-do-you looks at most silly students with the audacity to sip whiskey in their pub. The last time I was there, a group of five Spanish tourists were chatting exuberantly at the bar, enjoying the Scottish experience they were getting, while a pregnant woman perched on the windowsill behind us, with her attentive husband plying her frequently with water and juice. Everyone seems to end up in Sandy Bells eventually, and that is what is so fantastic: it is not just a student hang out. It feels more real because of that, somehow, and whiling away a few hours there makes me feel like I am actually almost an Edinburghian, just for a little while.
The last time I was there, Katherine and I decided that pints were for sissies, and we proceeded to sip and savor our way through various types of whiskey. I was previously unaware of the fact that, apparently, I am quite a fan of the stuff. While we were ordering, a rather lovely young man near us made some comment, about the music or about our drinks, and we fell to talking. He introduced himself to us as Ansom, and apparently he makes a point of meeting new people and hearing their stories, and hanging out in Sandy Bells for an evening makes that incredibly easy. As it turns out, he is a musician himself, plays guitar and mandolin, and he explained that his current project was to build himself a guitar that he could travel with when he went to climb the mountains of Nepal in the near future. Goodness me. Despite being from a little town up in the north of Scotland he has lived in Edinburgh for quite a while, and his father (whom he was there with) is apparently friends with many of the folk musicians, some of whom were then playing. This meant that Handsome Ansom knew all the best places in the area to hear music, and proceeded to take us to some of them, after Sandy Bells closed at 1 am.
In the next pub we went to, the somehow even TINIER Royal Oak, a red-faced man with scruffy black hair, a beard and a truly impressive paunch was singing a folk song (not one I had ever heard) in deep though dulcet tones, and just as we opened the door everyone was joining in on the chorus. It was like being hit with a sheer wall of humanity: so many bodies packed so tightly, everyone drinking, singing, smelling, laughing... I walked in after Ansom and Katherine and said, 'Excuse me, sorry' to a round-faced woman as I pushed by her. She looked at me, interested, and said, 'Are ye Irish?' Now, this is not the first time that someone has mistaken my accent for an Irish one, and to be honest, it is so flattering. Better than the scrunched-nose Oh, you're American which I sometimes get. I told her that alas, I was not, but she was too far gone to hear and began demanding that I do an Irish jig. Considering that there was not room to breathe, much less jig, I just laughed and let her friend do the explaining as I elbowed and squirmed my way up to the bar. Once there, I ended up wedged between two middle-aged, completely smashed Scottish men, who were either complimenting me, or insulting me, but I could not tell which because their accents were so thick, and by this time of night a bit slurred too. I just nodded and smiled a little cautiously, which made them laugh uproariously and made me even more suspicious. Then one of them caught sight of my locket, and pointed at it. I later realized that he was (half jokingly) offering to buy it off me, but at the time all I was aware of was a rather inebriated Scot pointing in the general direction of my chest and offering me various sums of money. I kept shooting longing glances at the bartender, hoping he would hurry up with my drink. The fellow was very disappointed when I refused to sell him my necklace for twenty quid, and his friend was laughing at him as I escaped. The rotund fellow with the beard had launched into a hearty rendition of the Black Velvet band, accompanied by a dour gentleman with an accordion, and Ansom was suitably impressed that I knew the words (thanks, Dad, for educating me in Irish folk tunes). We had quite a little chat about folk music in general, and it made me happy to NOT be the stupid uncultured American but to actually be familiar with what he was talking about. Three cheers for the Dubliners and the Clancy Brothers! Haha. Several songs and a pint later (Katherine and I had decided we were sissies) that pub closed too, but because we had been having such a good time we decided to stretch the night out a bit longer, so we went dancing at the lovely-sketchy-club-around-the-corner. The night ended with us being wholly ridiculous and singing along to the excellent, awful music, and somehow still managing to get home in one piece. It was a lovely time.
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