EDINBURGH FESTIVAL: DAY 1 – Why I am never allowed to book the accommodation again
Having survived the train trip up, Charlie and I shook out the map of the location of our new abode, the ‘Half-made Hostel’. Now by way of creative geography and scale, on the map provided by Jon, it looked to be about just down the road from Princes Street. Google Maps, however, did not concur. It turned out to be up the hill, down the other side and round quite a few corners. The walk was, in all fairness, stunning, but when we were looking to get home in the wind and rain at 1:30am the following morning, I can assure you it looked far less admirable.
So we get to Milton Street, and I’m already getting that ‘I’ve screwed something fairly major up here, haven’t I?’ feeling. It deepened when No 17 had no signage at all about the hostel, and plunged further again when we pushed the entry door open to a blank bank of doorbells lining a derelict doorway. While Charlie wandered up the road a bit to scope out the locale, I rang Jon. An impressive shaggy blonde mane appeared from an upstairs window, calling us up to 2.2. As we started hesitantly up, we passed a woman entering with her shopping.
“Are you also staying at the hostel?” I asked hopefully. She looked friendly, and sane. Charlie was giving me some meaningfully questioning look by now, and fairly enough too. But the woman’s reply did not help: “I don’t think there is a hostel here,” she replied, puzzled. “Apartment 2.2?” I asked, slightly desperate now. Her frown deepened. “2.2? You mean Jon?”
“That’s the one!!” I said with relief: we were in the right place. She however did not share my relief. “OH. He’s my neighbour. Um.” She pauses. “Look, if you need anything, I’m next door. Just knock.”
By this time I can’t even look at Charlie: WHAT have I got us in for? It can’t be this bad. The place was recommended. How bad can it be?
By the following day, it was not so bad. But at the time, as Charlie and I were faced by a large man in a kilt and slippers and ushered into the small spare room of his small flat, the situation wasn’t looking real good. No, not the spare room: the only bedroom. Jon had converted the meagre living space into his bedroom, separated only by a curtain from the kitchen.
I knew we would be staying in a ‘dorm’ for 4 – I just hadn’t realised that it was the only dorm. I knew there was an ensuite bathroom – I just hadn’t expected it to be the only bathroom in the house. I’d heard that Jon was a loud man in a kilt – but was completely unprepared for a host who was eccentric bordering on mad.
“So, yeah, if anyone in the building asks yer, yer me friends. And, er, we need to be quiet, upsets th’ people downstairs. And shoes off in the hoose – keeps it quiet-like. Here’s me business card, ye can hand these around if ye like…” and I’m standing in a room full of Jon’s stuff with a single bunk and a very, very, very low loft, which is to be shared by Charlie and I, in what is clearly an illegal operation, for which I’ve paid in full in advance, and I can’t look at poor Charlie, but I do look at the card, which reads ‘first class budget accommodation’ which contains at least two lies. And it lists Jon’s degree underneath. Why would you put your MA on your hostel card? It’s hardly a relevant qualification. And all I can manage is: “Jon – this isn’t what we paid for. And this isn’t what you sent me photos of.”
I was sunk on the second point, because although I can’t for the life of me work out how he did it, he did succeed in taking about 20 photos which made his small apartment look extremely lovely indeed. As for the first part, he became a little defensive, muttered distractedly that everyone else had been happy so far and that we could leave and have our money back if we wanted.
Shooting a side look at Charlie, I could see that this option was foremost on her mind, but I knew from experience that every hostel in the city was full. I wasn’t willing to pull out without a solid Plan B. Pride was swallowed. Bags were dropped. And Jon pulled out his claymore.
If you’ve never seen a man in full kilt dress armed with a claymore (ok, the slippers detracted from the whole picture) it is indeed quite the sight to behold. If you’re ever on the Royal Mile, Edinburgh, and see a man with a mane of blonde hair, full kilt and a claymore hoping you’ll want your photo taken with him, you’ll be looking at Jon (although don’t confuse him with the Royal Mile’s resident Braveheart impersonator, whose ‘agent’ is currently trying to harass Jon out of his new trade). The claymore is a good metre and a half of hilt and sword, and this is to be Jon’s first day plying his new trade as a traditional Scottish photo opportunity.
He leaves to try his luck, I apologise profusely to Charlie and begin ringing a number of hostels on the off chance we can take advantage of a cancellation. We can’t.
“It’s character building!” I say beeshingly.
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says. She’s not impressed.