The Ned Wood Archive

A million dead-end streets

I was away down into town. Exploring like on most Saturdays. The wind was up. I hugged my mac close to my chest. It didn’t give me much protection, though. I never had a warm coat back then. I’m heading out down South Bridge, past Old College, past the big book shop, past the record shop where I got my reissued version of Spiral Scratch, past the Tron Kirk, past Arnotts and onto the bridge over Waverly. And that’s where the wind decided it wasn’t going to let me go any further. Coming in past the Scotsman building, it held me there as if on the edge of a cliff and had me watch it orchestrate all of the litter of fag packets, sweet wrappers, crisp bags, and newspaper pages into a whirling dervish dance along the bridge. Bits and scraps of flying paper detritus rushed backwards and forwards flapping and slapping my body. An occupational hazard for any pedestrian wanting to cross North Bridge. I decided to avoid risking being smothered in paperwork like Robert de Niro in Brazil and escaped down the Scotsman Steps, abandoning my plans and resolving to explore the closes off the High Street rather than Princes Street.

Sometimes I went into the fancy art gallery next to the station or even the one at the bottom of the Mound but mostly I explored the streets and shops. You had to be in the right mood for art. Cockburn Street was sometimes fun – loads of shops selling jeans to students but also a couple of record shops, of course. The other thing with Cockburn Street like with all places up and down the high street was the closes. The back alleys, the wynds, the shortcuts, the ginnels. The passages that ran up and down the hill between the buildings of the High Street and the surrounding areas.

Some were straight and you could see the next street through them. Some were dead ends so you got nowhere and had to come back. Some were dog-legged, so you didn’t always know whether you’d end up having to turn round and come back or not. Some opened up into wee squares hidden from the high street. Some were well known and used for short cuts by everyone. Some seemed to be abandoned and unused. Some even disappeared underground or into someone’s yard. Some you could lose yourself in and struggle to escape. I never did get to explore all of them.

I’m up on the High Street and I go back down one of the closes back towards Cockburn Street and I can see that it brings me out opposite a record shop, so that makes my mind up for me and I go in to see whether they’ve got anything I need, although, to be honest, I don’t think I ever got anything from there. I was more of a Bruce’s records man. I don’t know why – I just ended up almost always going to Bruce’s. I can remember shopping at that place on South Bridge almost on top of Cowgate. Funny – I always associate them with Depeche Mode, although I never bought any Depeche Mode back then. Depeche Mode and Spiral Scratch and Orchestral Manoeuvres. I guess they just always played that first Depeche Mode single. Then there was a place on the high street opposite Arnotts that I always associate with Gary Numan, although I never bought any Gary Numan when I was in Edinburgh. They must have been playing Numan all the time in that shop. Cars. I remember buying some Jam in HMV in the St James Centre. It was HMV at the front wasn’t it? I remember shopping at Virgin on Frederick Street quite a few times. But mostly I remember Bruce’s. Getting London Calling. Rifling through the box of singles. The Flowers. Drinking Electricity. The Delmontes. Josef K. Some of that was later, wasn’t it? I know London Calling was 1979, though. I remember it was voted top album of the 70s by NME and top album of the 80s by Rolling Stone or some other American rag. Always late to the party, our American cousins.

Sometimes you can remember where you got stuff, sometimes you can’t. In Southampton, all I ever did was go to Virgin. Same in Birmingham. In London, when I was buying records it was mainly Rough Trade, but then getting Lene Lovich from Stiff in Covent Garden, old Kinks and Yardbirds stuff from that old rare record place, like Reddington’s, Vintage Records it was called, round the corner from Caledonian Road tube. Sore Throat singles from Rock On in Camden. They had loads of boxes of singles you could rifle through there too. I had loads of fun doing that.

Do you remember Sore Throat? One of the bands I got into in London. Don’t remember where I first heard them. Saw them later at the Hope and Anchor with our kid’s flatmate. Loads of them on stage having a great time putting on a real show. They looked a bit punky – the short hair, old suits and ties angle, but played their own style of all style rock and roll – sax to the front, solo spots for keys and guitar, tongue in cheek. Guitarist, bass player, and sax player all dancing in sync, a bit like the Shads. They had this great fun number, Zombie Rock, about a wicked vicar digging up dancing zombies. They fell between various stools and never made it big. And they never got much press despite having a few political lyrics on the album.

So now I’ve got myself in record buying mode and have failed to get anything on Cockburn Street, I decide to visit the shop opposite Arnotts just in case. Other Records. But there’s nothing there. My memory tells me this place is just too clean. Too bright. Is that right or is my memory playing tricks? Record shops in 1979 and 1980 should be all grungy. Maybe that’s why I associate Other Records with Gary Numan. Too clean. Cause and effect. But which is cause and which is effect? Does Other Records remind me of Gary Numan because it’s too clean or does Gary Numan remind me of Other Records because after Friends Electric, I think he’s not grungy enough?

So I wander down the back alleys further down the road and end up near the Pleasance. There must have been a brewery down there. It’s got that Burton smell. Hops. Then further down towards Holyrood. There’s a mix of old and new buildings here. The backstreets and closes are mixed too. And I don’t really know exactly where I am. Some of these places have only just been built. Some of them are old and beautiful. Proper stone buildings with fancy windows and the like. Old wooden doors hiding a few secrets. Iron gates closed in front of me and, behind them, private green squares like some of the fanciest places in London.

I’ve seen these closes described as the capillaries of Edinburgh. The small channels that carry the life blood of the city to every accessible point. Some folk describe them as the neurons, the conduits for all thought and intelligence in this town. Other folk talk about them as the DNA of this place, the repository of Auld Reekie’s fundamental nature. I prefer music to biology. Always have. Must be something to do with the teacher we had in third year. The closes of Edinburgh are part of the rhythm section. They give this place its pulse, its tempo. They are there in the background, but once you start to pay attention, you notice all manner of decoration and elaboration.

I’ll come back here during the festival and get access to some of these hidden halls and chambers and be allowed to sit through hour after hour of Chekov and Brecht. For today though, everything is shut to me. I’m still trying to get to somewhere I recognise. Sometimes I can see what looks like the main road, but escape is prevented by a gate. I try and double back on myself and find a new turn to follow. That may lead up a slope or down a couple of steps. One day, I’ll come back and map all of this out. I could sell my maps to all of the tourists who come down here of a summer. Convince them that there are treasures and delights to be seen. Well, there are. Quite a few. However, right now, I’m going round in circles, on each circuit, discovering a new path, but each new path returning me to the same, now familiar sights. That hideous new pebble dash house. That wonderful studded old oak door.

Then I look up and recognise a steeple. I realise that now I’m over the other side of South Bridge walking down some of the closes and wynds behind the Tron Kirk. How did I end up here? Did I manage to go under the main road? Doesn’t matter. These are just ordinary back alleys behind the Tron. Nothing to see here.

And now I find myself down on Cowgate near the Traverse. I walk down the Grassmarket and there’s a bit of a pop up market going on and folk selling all sorts of odds and ends. Bits of unwanted furniture. Old, discarded boots. The sort of clothes you wouldn’t want to be seen dead in. The sort of ornament that fills up guest houses and your Gran’s front room. And, right at the end of the row, there is this kid of about 11 or 12 selling what look like a handful of his Mom and Dad’s books. Or maybe his Gran’s books. From her front room.

I already told you I’d started collecting second hand books, didn’t I? Those old Penguins with olive green or orange spines. There was a place just down the road from us – opposite Mingies the newsagent. And there was a place over the Meadows on Buccleuch Street and one on Victoria Street and loads of others but further away. West Port books my favourite, up past the Grassmarket. I could live in some of those bookshops. Go in and just browse and lose myself. I could never afford all the books I wanted. And I never read all of the ones I wanted to either. But the books this kid had were older. Classy styled covers with little illustrations on the front. Different colours depending on the genre. So I bought them all off him for less than a quid. Orwell. HG Wells. Faulkner. Descartes. Some ancient Roman or Greek. Not that I’m really going to read the old Roman and Greek stuff, but I thought they looked neat, so worth the small change. They had a rich purple colour. Imperial Roman Purple. I hope his Gran doesn’t miss them.

I carry my haul up the wynd in the middle of the Grassmarket, up the steps towards the castle. There were a couple of steep climbs up between the bars on the Grassmarket. And the same up the other way towards Heriots where Fast Product lived. There was one time, some clear bright spring day that I’d been exploring and I’d turned into a passage next to a bar on the north side of Grassmarket and found myself in some long dark tunnel rather than climbing up some stairs. There was light coming from somewhere, but I couldn’t see the far end. The tunnel curved away to the right and then took a couple of sharp turns, left, then right, then started to go down which fooled me. Turning round, I could just about make out where I’d just been, but I couldn’t see the entrance that I’d used. You keep going cos you know it’s going to open out eventually, but you have to go slow so you didn’t hit the walls or trip over something on the ground. The same as when I did the geological mapping up in Chee Dale and Miller’s Dale and I walked through the old rail tunnels on the old track. This was before they were official footpaths. This tunnel off the Grassmarket was easier because the floor was more even. I haven’t hit any rocks or stuff left abandoned under my feet yet. I kept going, trying to work out where I was. I knew that Castle Rock itself was a volcanic plug, so I wouldn’t be tunnelling through that. The High Street, however, was built on sandstone and most places built on sandstone have tunnels through the rock, so I was obviously in some sort of smuggler’s shortcut or maybe a defensive escape route. I walked on, following the curve round to the left now and eventually there was the exit in front of me, brighter light coming through. And when I surfaced, I found myself on the side of a bank somewhat overgrown and realised I was above the Water of Leith not far from St Bernard’s Well. Well, I know that’s not possible, so I figured I’d been day dreaming and had walked miles without realising it.

So, back to where I was that day, up on Castle Hill exploring. In and out of the closes off Lawnmarket. These are more open, leading on to larger courtyards. All connected with each other. I’m near Nessie’s place now. Just as I come through a small arched alley into one of the courts, I see this figure disappearing down one of the alleys over the other side of the courtyard. No surprise in seeing a figure, even on a cold windy morning like this one; however, what caught my eye with this figure was the pair of wings folded tidily across its back. Dark grey feathered wings that arched up from the shoulders to level with the ears, then bent back down either side of the spine, perfectly symmetrical, flowing in waves of feathers down to a point just about knee level where the two separate wings came together and almost touched like Adam and his creator in Michelangelo’s fresco. Or that cowboy T-shirt Vivienne Westwood did. I quickened my pace to try and catch up, following the figure at each turn through the wynds and closes and across the open quads and cloisters. In and out of the alleys. I thought I was getting close. I could see the folds of its dark grey gown. I could see the dark grey hair above the dark grey wings on its back. Occasionally, I caught a glimpse of a black shoe or boot under the long grey robes flapping at its feet as it strode forward. I thought about shouting out and before I opened my mouth, it read my thoughts and turned. The angel smiled and then disappeared around another corner. I was about to say hello as I turned the corner myself, but there was no one there. Not a soul. Not a human. Not an angel. Just an empty square yard. Was I dreaming again?