Culture has been thin on the ground for the last week. Yesterday we had the rock star style event of cult author Neil Gaiman wowing his Edinburgh fans. I’m sure that if he gave up writing books, he could just tour anyway, chatting to his fans.
On the way to the Neil Gaiman venue, the witch passed Edinburgh Castle, fully floodlit and looking magnificent, rising up out of the dark. And before this, Julie Bertagna and I had dined at Centotre, which is an Italian restaurant housed in a former bank. So far I’ve escaped old banks, but I can see now that they make for a really impressive setting for a meal out. The food was good, and so was the service. And it’s the first restaurant I’ve been to with Italian language lessons in the toilet.
Tonight it was the turn of Stirling Castle, and while it wasn’t quite so brightly lit up, it’s a rather nicer castle. It, too, floated about somewhere high up in the dark, on my way out to dinner, again. It’s tough with all this eating out, but I can handle it. My Glaswegian author dinner companion was replaced by nine family members and at long last I was taken to the Sheriffmuir Inn, up in the wilds above Dunblane. I’d heard of it before, but had never been. Lots of tartan, but nicely done, and very good food and service. And their toilets offered individual towelling hand towels.
It’ll be back to tins of baked beans tomorrow. And no castles.