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    EDINBURGH FESTIVAL: DAY 1 – Why I am never allowed to book the accommodation again

    2009 - 08.25

    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.