Heaven on the top shelf.

The centre of Edinburgh exhibits a unique form of torture, manifested in a solid 3 square miles wall of solid bagpipe assault. The overly generous scattering of tourist shops in the central city are so evenly spaced that the perpetual bagpipe music that emanates from them becomes a continuous wall of celtic cliche. All of which would be unbearable, were it not for the fact that every bar is a refuge of top shelf single malt heaven... and often 2nd and 3rd shelves as well.

Inevitably a decent cheese shop has a Frenchman, pizza restaurant an Italian, and now it seems that Cafe's are run by Kiwis and Australians. Having already formed a beachhead in London, the vanguard are already in Edinburgh. Seeking refuge from a biting wet gust, burst into a cosy rustic little cafe , and there amidst the mix-and-match antique furniture, comfortingly warm music, and the smell of fresh coffee... the antipodean stereo accents behind the machine.

After a few days of unbroken gloomy grey, chill damp and rain... the sun.
A couple of morning blacks to start the day, and out and up the long way over Arthurs Seat.
And down after to leather armchair, ale by the pint, Haggis Neeps and Tatties.
Restored.