Stuart Campbell's Blog
hobnobbing or nobhobbing
Hobnobbing or nobhobbing
Delighted to be invited to the launch of the Edinburgh International Book festival I turned up far too early and made several tours of Parliament Square before reluctantly joining the queue for what was obviously a fashion show for the under 25s being held in the unlikely environment of the Signet Library. Surprisingly I was in the right place judging by the recyclable goody bag containing a copy of Granta, a festival programme, 5 postcards and a miniature of Highland Park.
Assuming that I had missed the sign for elderly and infirm participants I hid behind a column feigning interest in the locked shelves behind me – until I realised that I was three feet away from the RLS collection at which point the interest ceased to be feigned. I was rescued by Maggie Craig who apart from being an extremely nice person specialises in rescuing the socially phobic. She explained how the spell check frequently became censorious when typing in the title of her book on the 45 called Bare Arsed Bandits. She also explained that all the beautiful but ridiculously young people present were either publishers, journalists or just perhaps, Cutting Edge Young Writers.
Suddenly everything made sense, at previous book festivals I always walked quickly past the tent which always smelled strongly of Irnbru and feet, assuming it was the children’s tent. I now realise that particular wigwam was reserved for all the bright young cutting edge writers. So this is what writers look and smell like. Maggie introduced me to Alanna Knight and I was able to acknowledge borrowing her insightful footnote on the death of Princess Kailuni, one of the young women of whom RLS was intensely fond. Frail but sparkly the Stevenson scholar said that just when she thought she had finished with Stevenson he seemed to turn up again, after all she said he is everywhere in Edinburgh. And he is.
Richard Holloway’s speech was probably better than anything else published to coincide with the festival. He conjured John Updike’s alter ago descending on the tented city of Charlotte Square, certain that this was a religious gathering of some sort, only to wonder what type of religion worshiped both Richard Dawkins and Karen Armstrong. I thought back 35 years to when I used to listen equally rapt to Richard’s sermons from the pulpit of Old St. Paul’s half a mile down the road. After my second Bucks Fizz I found the courage to interrupt Jenny Brown and thank her for recommending Sandstone Press.
A quick and easy decision not to go into work for the afternoon was followed by a tour of charity shops. And then things went horribly wrong. Walking past the end of Infirmary Street I glanced at Rutherford’s Bar which has a bit of prominence in RLS in Love on account of it being the sole remaining Edinburgh boozer with Stevenson connections.
The picture in the book was taken when the pub’s name was down, and now there was a new sign hanging. A Victor Meldrew moment. The premises have been relaunched as The Hispaniola and has morphed into the most appalling kitsch Stevenson theme restaurant. The street was still shaking as bodies turned in their graves. A peer through the windows revealed skeletons in cages hanging above the tables. Not a good advertisement for the promptness of the service. Presumably a job lot from the refurbished Edinburgh Dungeon. No doubt the only accept doubloons and serve a Ben Gunn cheese board.
Despite my horror I suspect that RLS would have roared with laughter at the sheer nonsense of the place, and then crossed the road to stare through the windows of the sex shop opposite. I wonder if the new owner would take a few copies.