At Flames we sell a wide range of electric, gas, wood and multifuel fire and stoves and range of mantlepieces & healths, including a range of accessories.
ANY OTHER SERVICES YOU CAN OFFER?
We offer servicing on solid fuel appliances, which can include a chimney sweep and Inspection. Service and cleaning of stove/sppliance and replacement of parts if necessary.
WHY DID YOU DECIDE TO OPEN A STORE IN LEITH?
It's an area we feel could benefit from our services. This is a vibrant area which continues to grow and which we would love to be a part of.
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE FUTURE
Hopefully to provide quality products and a first-class service to the Leith Community
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Editor at Large
Billy Gould editor@theleithermagazine.com
In search of Charlotte Rampling
From the moment I first clapped eyes on her in Lilliana Cavana’s morally dubious The Night Porter…
Ihave been in search of Charlotte Rampling. I’m going to add ‘enraptured’ by (the very name ‘Rampling’ suggests a rumble in a haystack is guaranteed).
First in Georgy Girl. Where, as Dirk Bogarde would have it, she was “as skittish as a young foal”. Then Stardust Memories, where her extraordinary emerald eyes seem to retain their colour despite the fact that the film is shot in black and white. In The Damned she moves like someone with no clothes on under her clothes. In the otherwise dire Orca: The Killer Whale she is, as the Goons used to say, “the nearest thing I had ever seen to a human being without actually being human”.
Even in Max Mon Amour - where she has an affair with a chimpanzee for god’s sake! - she retains her glacial beauty and mystique. What Bogarde called ‘The Look’.
I was at an impressionable age when our paths first crossed. A pretentious youth who affected to read Dostoyevsky and, like him, thought that beauty could save the world. Whether it came in the form of art, literature, or music, it was always intangible, always just out of reach. As long as it existed we had a chance. Which is to say at the age of sixteen all roads led to Charlotte Rampling.
Writing now from my late middle aged desk, I realise that is not true. If all roads lead to Charlotte Rampling why does the A9 end in Thurso?
I’ll warrant too that the sheer accident of her beauty could be seen as a curse as well as a blessing. Who is to say that her face was not the slave to her dreams?
whilst Grande Dames toy with Dover soles. Japanese tourists take photographs of the place settings in front of them. When the food they have ordered arrives they video it.
Professors and academics read heavily annotated textbooks whilst Grande Dames toy with Dover soles
It is February 2018 and I’m sitting in Brasserie Balzar in the shadow of the Sorbonne in Paris. Professors and academics read heavily annotated textbooks
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I’m reading an article about Ms Rampling in a French magazine Citizen K, when I realise with mounting horror that I have been inadvertently stalking her. She mentions her four favourite places in Paris and over the last few days I’ve been in all of them, culminating in this place.
I am toying with a wonderfully unctuous Saint Marcelin cheese and a Sancerre rouge when the restrained, black, Coco Chanel suit glides past on dark heelless pumps. It’s owner takes of their sunglasses and bends to kiss someone before sitting down with her back to me.
The room is extravagantly mirrored but I can’t see her reflection anywhere. She is effectively vampire. She has picked the only
place in a crowded restaurant where you can’t see anything except the back of her head.
No matter. I know who this is, I can’t control my hands, all thought processes are shot. Diffidence and apprehension come to the fore. I don’t want to approach for she is famously unknowable (and famously inscrutable) but I have to verify. To prove or show something to be true, genuine, or valid. After all, memory is a form of hunger and I owe it to my younger self to quench it.
In the end it is… (of course it is)… it is simple.
I walk past her on my way to the toilet and on the stairs down I see an old poster for a Julio Medem film Chaotic Ana and I know she was in it. On my way back up the stairs, I ask the waitress in a loud Scottish brogue if I can have it. The waitress looks to Charlotte Rampling’s table and then to me now at the top of the stairs.
At that, Charlotte Rampling looks round - still serenely beautiful at 72 - looks at me, nods a yes, and smiles.
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Cover 169: Saint Monan’s Smokehouse, East Neuk, Fife @jonwoodphotos
Charlotte Rampling in Boogie Woogie, 2009
Through a Glass Darkly
Graham Ross
Welcome to a World on fire
Perhaps the first thing we should do in this edition’s column is to address its title
Sometimes applied to people who ared in that rarefied category.
Recently, those of us who regularly contribute to the Leither were asked to come up with what I suppose could be loosely termed a strapline to illustrate where we were coming from in relation to the columns we write.
Having mulled this over for quite some time, I came to realise that most of what I write is almost always preceded by a few glasses of something cheerful, followed by an introspective hour or two trying to make sense of a world on fire. So, looking at things “through a glass darkly” seemed reasonably appropriate. Granted, the phrase was plagiarised by me from a 1961 film directed by Ingmar Bergman. And our esteemed editor further informed me that the phrase was actually taken from Corinthians in the King James version of the bible.
If all of this sounds grossly pretentious, (and it does to me), don’t worry, the column will never delve into the bible (“a cracked book of lies and a thousand twisted pages” as Mike Scott of the Waterboys has it), or try to explain the inner workings of Mr Bergman’s mind. More often than not, it will hopefully be a sober (ahem), look at recent events which may or may not provoke further discussion. Preferably accompanied by the aforementioned cheerful glass. And always remember, it doesn’t matter if you view your glass to be half full or half empty, either way it needs topping up.
And so, to the world on fire.
In recent days, there have been a number
of protests outside of hotels across the UK which are currently being used to house asylum seekers. The protests have taken place following a ruling by the High Court in England which granted a temporary injunction to a local council to stop asylum seekers being placed in a hotel in Epping. Some protesters are demanding that all such placements should be stopped and that there should be a mass deportation campaign, while anti-racism campaigners have organised counter protests showing support for refugees and asylum seekers.
As ever, politicians have sought to weigh in on the increasing unrest. And why not? I mean Nigel Farage has built an entire career out of being a powder monkey and turning up to throw petrol on the flames and then claiming that any ensuing chaos and violence has absolutely nothing to do with him. He’s obviously called for similar protests across the country, without ever having come up with a viable solution to the issue at hand.
The next leader of the Tory party (unless he defects to Reform which seems more suited to his brand of fascism-lite) Robert Jenrick, turned up at the Epping protests and was photographed in close proximity to a veteran far-right activist. This is the same Jenrick who said in 2022 “I would never demonise people coming to this country in pursuit of a better life. And I understand and appreciate our obligation to refugees.”
Nigel Farage has built a career out of being a powder monkey, turning up to throw petrol on flames
Oh, unless you count leaving the European Convention on Human Rights, or mass deportations, or getting the Royal Navy to tow small boats back to Calais and engage with the French Navy if need be. This tawdry, small-minded grifter, recently said that he didn’t care if refugees from Afghanistan were killed or tortured under his mass deportation plans, and is rubbing his hands at the thought of turning communities against one another on this issue.
But hey, Kemi Badenoch is failing to show that she is the right-wing saviour of the Tories so why not start your leadership bid early by showing up to Nigel’s summer street parties and turning on the hypocrisy.
And what of the Labour Government? Well, Home Secretary Yvette Cooper has stated that the government is committed to closing all asylum hotels, but that this needs to happen “in a properly managed way.” I’m cynical enough to know that this means that all asylum hotels in the UK will be closed, but probably not until just before the next general election.
There is no denying that the issue of immigration has been slowly coming to the boil in recent years. But the frightening thing is that rather than trying to cool tensions and approach the issue with a view to embedding cohesion and safety in our communities, some politicians are happy to stand back and watch the conflagration for their own ends. They know who they are and Hell mend them.
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Writer without Portfolio Tracy Griffen
A Film About Porridge
Before Coco life was quite different. It’s amazing how such a small thing (6kg) can alter destiny. Coco is my constant companion, my studio assistant and furry bestie
This dog has changed my life. If it weren’t for Coco there would be no ‘dog porridge’ and it’s likely I would never have taken part in the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Making championship.
For it was just after lockdown, early 2022, that I entered aforementioned competition with a speciality of dog porridge (I sometimes eat porridge for lunch between PT sessions and give Coco her own wee serving). We love oats so much that we were happy to spend a blissful weekend in the Highland village of Carrbridge, stirring oats competitively. I made it to the final round of the competition, six of us finalists competing for the esteemed trophy. No win! I vowed to return. This year’s Golden Spurtle will be live streamed on October 4th to Tracy’s fitness studio. All proceeds to Mary’s Meals And in 2023, I returned. Before the competition Coco and I were filmed for a documentary on the Golden Spurtle. The crew filmed in Pilrig Park, my allotment and outside the studio. I didn’t think much about it, and then competed again in 2024. Fast forward just over a year and in April this year, a sneak preview of the film at the very village hall in which it was filmed. It was at the screening that Coco and I saw that we’d made the final cut. It was so exciting to be in a film with my dog about one of my favourite foods. I was on cloud nine and Coco slept through the whole film.
It feels a bit weird featuring in a film with Coco the Wonderdog
hotel on the day of the premiere. We were on family holiday in Bamburgh, so Coco and I caught a very friendly and clean Trans Pennine Express train to Waverley midfestival. We sauntered through Princes Street Gardens, stopping for a bowl of water under a tree (Coco, not me). The marble foyer of the Caledonian hotel was cool but busy. A wide-eyed PR lady bubbled with enthusiasm for our doggy star, Coco. Photos were taken, we were led up to a conference room on the 1st floor and then the group shot with Director Constantine Conti, Producers Rebecca Lamond and very happy John Archer and some of us contestants in front of a logoed black screen. Very Hollywood. Coco got a bit excited and did zoomies around the packed boardroom. Photobomb!
The film itself? It follows the final year of retiring porridge chieftain Charlie Miller. The beautiful scenery is captured lovingly with a colourful cast of characters, competitors and villagers, warming the heart like a good bowl of oats. It was also totally unscripted, which makes it even funnier. The List review surmises:
“The Golden Spurtle is a documentary about porridge, but behind its loving shots of sumptuous oats and gruel-thin misfires is a meditation on ageing, community and the difficult necessity of letting go.”
I love that this film has gone down so well so far, as it has such a positive message for these anxious times. It feels a bit weird writing about a film that me and my dog appear in (for thirty seconds), so I’ll finish with a quote from The Skinny:
The Golden Spurtle premiered at the Edinburgh International Film festival in August. It had gone down very well at the Copenhagen and Sydney film festivals, full houses and extra screenings required. The week before EIFF, the official film poster was released (see pic) with Coco included. Coco the fitness pug, clown, constant companion now also a moofie star!
A photocall was arranged in the Caledonian
Photoshoot over, we caught the 16 bus to the Cameo to watch the audience go in to the first official UK screening. A queue formed down the street and we got too hot so sat under a tree in Bruntsfield Links. A taxi to Leith, tram to Waverley and final train back to BerwickUpon-Tweed marked the end of a very hectic day. The screenings at Filmhouse and Vue cinemas were also sold out. It was rather surreal. The List, The Skinny and Guardian all awarded the film an agreeable 4 stars.
“This is an incredibly funny film, with most of the comedy emanating from the disconnect between the competitors’ passion for creating the perfect bowl of porridge and the inherent futility of such an endeavour, given that every bowl passed in front of the camera looks identical.” But they taste different!
The Golden Spurtle in Cinemas 12 September, Griffen Studio will livestream the 2025 Golden Spurtle competition. www.goldenspurtle.com
Bluesky: @tracygriffen www.griffenfitness.com
Reviews
The past is another country
For 25 years, Ken Wilson writes, Graydon Carter edited the super-glossy magazine Vanity Fair. Before that, in the late 1980s, he co-founded Spy…
ANew York version of Private Eye. Spy had hard news and satirical spoofs. Carter’s memoir When The Going Was Good (Grove Press £20) is a rollercoaster ride through his life in magazine publishing. His stories at Spy are far more interesting than those hobnobbing (and name-dropping) at the Oscars party.
One year-long prank involved setting up a fake company called National Refund Clearinghouse which had its own bank-authorised cheques. The idea was to send cheques to assorted millionaires (TV moguls, celebs, bankers) for the piddling amount of $1.11 and in increasingly insignificant amounts thereafter. Who among the rich would go to the trouble of banking such measly amounts? Well two did for a cheque worth only 13 cents! One was the multimillionaire arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi and the other was Big Apple prime property magnate Donald Trump.
One 19th century innovation, the department store, called an ‘Adam-less Eden’ by Emile Zola, is now virtually a thing of the past
In the last 10 years the fortunes of Britain’s high streets have changed. Where once there were ironmongers and newsagents now there are vape shops and nail bars. Once Leith Walk’s fortunes looked imperilled by the seemingly endless tram works. Now the thoroughfare has the look and feel of a European boulevard although some Leithers miss the more characterful past. The Bookshop, the Draper, the Candlestick Maker by Annie Gray (Profile Books £22) is far more than just the story of shopping. She calls the high street the beating heart of a city or town although many boarded-up shopping streets today appear to be on life support.
One 19th century innovation, the department store, once called an ‘Adam-less Eden’ by Emile Zola, is now virtually a thing of the past.
The 2008 economic crash, Brexit, the credit crunch, fast fashion, Covid and online home deliveries have all been hammer blows to the high street experience.
‘It’s easy to paint a picture of doom on
British high streets,’ writes Gray, ‘but that’s not completely fair. In any case, if closures outnumber openings – so what. The number of shops has been steadily decreasing since the 1920s.’ Despite recent upheavals, in 2020 nearly 80% of people surveyed said high streets were important to the local community.
Is there a pop act that’s had more words and analysis expended on it than the Beatles? Can there be anything left to say on the genius of Lennon and McCartney? Ian Leslie’s John and Paul (Faber £20) is a revelatory account of the duo’s relationship as friends, rivals and collaborators; their brotherly love and sibling-like rivalry. The book looks at the pair chronologically through 43 of their songs adding context and colour. There are musicological insights on how the hits were constructed along with trenchant psychological observations. Take 1968’s top-seller ‘Hey Jude’. Originally ‘Hey Jules’, an ode to Lennon’s son Julian, it is ‘almost unique in the annals of pop: a song sung by a man to a close male friend,’ writes Ian Leslie. ‘[There’s] an obvious precursor, also written or initiated by Paul McCartney: “She Loves You”’. The Beatles’ songs are akin to old folk music, something sung to us as babies. We might think we know the songs so well they have become bland but careful and considered listening is always rewarding. As Leslie writes about ‘Eleanor Rigby’: ‘its cultural ubiquity has stopped us noticing how strange it is.’
Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. Today’s millennials might grow misty-eyed over Beyonce’s first album but for others the ghastly taste of 50 years ago – the 1970s – furnishes their happy place: orange shag rugs, tie-dyed tee-shirts, enigmatic prog rock album covers…
Back in the 70s, a time of three-day weeks and power cuts, people looked back 50 years too to the jollier, lesscomplicated Jazz Age of the 1920s. Teens in Oxford Bags queued up to see The Great Gatsby film (1974) much as today’s twentysomethings look on the 70s through rose-coloured Lennon granny glasses.
Geoff Dyer’s Homework (Canongate £20) is a tender, touching and very funny memoir of a bright workingclass kid growing up: Airfix models, gloopy dayglo custard, demonic playground bullies, snot-encrusted hankies. Dyer captures well his childhood in the 60s and teen years in the 70s, a period still tinged with clammy post-war austerity.
Bluesky: kenwilson84.bsky.social
Art Exhibition 2025
Enjoy beautiful views over the Firth of Forth whilst browsing wonderful works of art provided by over 60 local artists - encompassing painting, sculpture, pottery, textiles and more!
24, 25 & 26 October 15 & 17 Boswall Road 10am till 4pm
Free Admission
A minimum of 50% of proceeds from each sale will be donated to the Hospice
As if having an EH postcode isn’t enough of a reward, yours entitles you to money off food and drink around the city, cheaper days out and exclusive events. All to say thanks for being a local legend.
GET YOUR RESIDENT REWARDS AT
The 1980s
Thatcherite Broadband
This week, entirely by accident, Tom Wheeler ended up having his monthly TV and broadband bill reduced by over 80%
Which annoyed me. And not for the first time in my life, I blamed Maggie Thatcher. That probably needs a bit of unpicking. Why would anyone be angry at saving a pile of money? And what exactly does a broadband bill have to do with someone who stepped down as prime minister in 1990, when the World Wide Web was one year old and my home computer had a green screen and a tape deck?
So just to be clear, it wasn’t the prospect of having more money that made me cross. That, I’ll freely admit, would be insane. But here’s the back story. Many years ago, I signed up for a TV and internet service – most likely dial-up at that point, though I forget. Through a combination of inflation, arbitrary price hikes and sheer chutzpah, my monthly costs gradually worked their way from hefty to eyewatering. But partly because no single price rise was all that outrageous – and partly because doing nothing is always easier than doing something – I kept on paying them.
When the discrepancy between the money paid and service received finally became too much to ignore, I phoned to cancel. But remarkably – and I suspect you’re ahead of me here – they suddenly found it in their hearts to reduce the bill by well over half. Yes, it was obviously a bribe. But it was quite a big one. I agreed to stay.
So imagine my surprise – and you’ll have to imagine it, because there was no surprise at all – when the prices quickly resumed their tireless hike, until they were roughly back at the point that had led me to cancel in the first place. So naturally, I did nothing – but when a cold caller from a rival company came to the door with a decent bribe of their own, I decided to go for it. Crucially, they said they would deal with all the changeover arrangements themselves, so at least
I wouldn’t have to speak to another salesperson. Except of course I would.
“Hello, we’re sorry to hear you’ve decided to leave us. I’ll just see if there’s anything we can do to change your mind – oh, it turns out we can offer you…”
Thatcher’s greater crime was (quite deliberately) doing nothing to support regions decimated by their loss
Who’d have thunk it? An offer genuinely too good to refuse, despite the obvious farce of the whole process: two years of telly and broadband for twenty quid a month. That would have been a steal two decades ago, never mind now. And this from the same people who would have cheerfully charged me five times that for as long as they could get away with it. So all I’m really doing is clawing back a bit of the money I’ve been overcharged for years - hence why I’m only partly thrilled. And why Thatcher? Because in so many ways, she started it. Back in the day, I mainly despised her for destroying so many of Britain’s industries. In retrospect, some of those industries were doomed in any case – her much greater crime was (quite deliberately) doing nothing at all to support the cities and regions decimated by their loss. Meanwhile, under the pretext of deregulation and opportunity, she asset-stripped the country. Housing, public buildings,
railways and utilities were subject to a fire sale.
A lot of people got rich as a country got poor. Forty years on, house prices are stratospheric, social housing non-existent, railways hilarious, infrastructure crumbling and CEOs absolutely minted. Tell Sid, they said in the TV adverts at the time. They didn’t say exactly what to tell him.
Granted, Thatcher didn’t personally shape the modern communications industry, but only because it didn’t exist. The model is identical though: take a universal need – communication in this case – contrive some nonexistent competition and present all this as a positive. All people need to do to benefit is constantly monitor price comparison sites for absolutely everything, switch supplier every ten minutes, and threaten to take their business elsewhere to earn a brief pause to the extortion.
And the whole thing is predicated on the assumption that enough people can’t or won’t keep on top of it all, so they can continue to be fleeced while a few others benefit. It’s as tiring as it is unnecessary. And at the risk of sounding like a grizzled old leftie –which wouldn’t be a world away from the truth – I’m calling bullshit.
Takeaway
Have we reached peak posh coffee?
Charlie Ellis reckons Kul Coffee’s arrival is representative of posh coffee’s seemingly inexorable growth, as well as the social polarities it manifests
Typified by the now ubiquitous flat white, such ‘specialty’ or ‘artisan’ coffee places have become one of the most identifiable manifestations of urban change and gentrification. Leith is home to a number of Edinburgh’s most renowned coffee spots, Including Artisan Roast, Williams & Johnson, and Little Fitzroy. Is there no end to it?
Growing costs
One thing that might put a break on this seemingly inexorable growth is cost. £3.64 is currently the average price for espresso-based drinks in the UK. With the price of beans on the rise, the four quid flat white is coming… soon. However, despite the price of coffee rising, we are buying more of it! According to Allegra World Coffee Portal’s report, more than 6 billion pounds was spent in UK coffee shops in 2024. More than 500 coffee shops opened in the UK last year and it is predicted another 2000 will open by 2030! Clearly we are nowhere near ‘peak coffee’!
A design for life
Social polarisation?
The arrival of new ‘posh’ coffee places doesn’t meet with universal approval. This new coffee culture is embraced by many as something bold and innovative, manifesting creative re-use and enriching the hospitality scene. For others, it’s about what’s been lost and how it’s been replaced. The divergent reactions are a microcosm of wider disputes about our changing city, feeding into a sense of social polarisation.
populist commentators who see it as emblematic of the metropolitan liberal elite that, they argue, dominates the culture.
Cultural erasure?
Some of the disquiet raised online about posh coffee connects to wider concerns about the changing character of the city. The political scientists Pippa Norris and Ronald Inglehart have, in books such as Cultural Backlash, talked about the discombobulating character of rapid social and cultural change.
As Norris put it, ‘many people felt that the things which they took for granted, the things which they regarded as important for themselves in their community and their country, those things were being lost.’ Some see the closure of much loved shops, pubs and greasy spoons as evidence of a form of cultural erasure. However true this may or may not be, it is certainly widely felt
Gone too far?
One consistent theme in the online reaction to new coffee places opening up is that Edinburgh surely already has enough ‘overpriced coffee shops.’ As noted, there are far more places to get coffee than in the past, ranging from greasy spoons (a declining number), the ‘multi-unit operators’ (the chains), and independents. Have things gone too far?
The argument that we have too many cafes overlooks that the vast majority I visit or pass are busy. As an illustration, the first day I sauntered in Kul Coffee I was struck by the noise; the place was heaving! What drew me in was the abundant sense of energy and the airy spaciousness of the place, but I had to settle for a takeaway (a delicious Columbian, complex and fruity). Only on my third visit, did I get a seat. Peak posh coffee is clearly some way off.
Recurrent themes
The sense of a city no longer focusing on its long term customers
When entering places such as Kul Coffee, there’s little doubt that the customers represent a specific slice of Edinburgh. Kul’s motto is ‘Where Coffee Brews Community’. However, I’m not sure that all those who live in the area would feel comfortable in such a cool, ultra-minimalist place. It’s as if an invisible force field exists around such places, keeping out certain groups. Kul’s customers are younger than average. This is characteristic of specialist coffee places, often full of students and Gen Z ‘knowledge workers’, able to take their slim laptops anywhere, as they work in a hybrid or remote fashion. This has led specialty coffee into the crosshairs of
Specialty coffee is a marker of social change. Concerns about too many coffee shops rank just below ‘yet more student housing’ and potholes among the recurrent themes in online ‘discourse’ about the city. The city is, some feel, increasingly dominated by ‘student accommodation, hotels, residential areas for rich people and coffees shops’.
This feeds into the sense of the city changing its character, no longer focused on its long-term residents. Coffee is clearly fuelling much more than just our working days. This includes inciting some of the rancorous debate about the future of the city.
Pippa Norris and Ronald Inglehart’s book Cultural Backlash is available from Cambridge Press £28
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Where the Wild Things Are
Animal Magic/ Animal Tragic
A chance encounter with a wild deer in the heart of Leith forces Colin Montgomery to reconsider this zoo called life
The deer emerged from a vennel twixt the modern flats just opposite Plumbase. Maybe it was a sign. No, it was a deer. Besides, we have enough signs near Sandport Bridge as it stands. A forest of red, yellow and black – they grow prodigiously round nascent cycle paths and other works. That said, the latter has taken so long to finish, they could be considered an ancient urban forest. So, the errant ungulate was most likely confused. (Ungulate. Cue flickery hand gestures under chin etc.) Yeah, a bit unnecessary that.
But similarly fancy schmancy moves were to follow from the deer. It bounded out past a guy in a minidigger, oblivious, reading his redtop. Fitting. I suspect a wild deer hoofing aboot the heart of Leith would have had the tabloid headline-writers salivating; and many a pun flashed
Colin’s deer proved to be a master of disguise
But similarly fancy schmancy moves were to follow from the deer outside Plumbase
briefly into my mind, as the beast disappeared into the car park. I stopped. Then shouted to digger man: “Did you see that deer?”. Not ‘dear’. He was incredulous. Then, my vindication arrived, galloping back in our direction. At speed.
It emerged from the row of parked cars like a big-boned Bambi on uppers. As I turned, in readiness to play matador – I kid you not, I suspected I’d be on the end of a cloven beatdown – so did the workie in the cab of the digger. The deer swerved between us, zig-zagging in that panicky way only confused wild animals can, and clopped into the car park of the flats, where I lost sight of it behind a bike shed. I looked back at the workie, and he gave me a thumbs-up with a grin that said: “A FUCKING DEER, THAT’S MENTAL!”
When I walked around the corner, the deer was nowhere to be seen. And I wasn’t going to play Attenborough. For one thing, I was running late for
work; and for another, I’d left my best tranquilizer dart rifle at home (always the way, eh?). So, I went on my way. But the deer stayed with me afterwards. Not in an overlysentimental way – I have it on good authority that it’s not unusual to see deer in close proximity to wooded areas that skirt urban landscapes. More in that way of being jolted from your waking coma.
By which I mean, when all around is increasingly an ugly human zoo, encountering an uncaged bestial presence - where least expected – is really quite the thing; it has a strange and wonderful incongruity that punctures your festering consciousness like a hot needle lancing a boil. Instant, arresting and, dare I say it, joyous. Like the first time you ever found a banknote in the gutter. Or perhaps –to lower the tone – finding a pristine porno mag abandoned in the woods, when a sweaty young adolescent. It made me yearn for more such animal magic round these parts. To maybe find a giraffe lumbering through the Kirkgate. Zebras on Leith Links. Maybe a big cat even - not the black panther kept in a cage at Fairley’s on the Shore back in the day (which was forcibly removed after supposedly mauling a punter). Then I realised, we have enough menageries. Because, the world is full of animals. Increasingly so, you might say. Yet, sadly, their wildness is without the dignity of that beautiful deer cutting about down the Sandport Street area, one early August morning.
We have the Trumpian chatter of the chimp-in-chief and his coterie over the Atlantic. We have vultures circling the catastrophe of Middle East, daily. We have the Russian bear rampaging, unchecked. And now, we have pigignorant racism hiding behind ‘three lions’ rhetoric about pride, nationhood and belonging. Oh, and let’s not even start on the ostrich syndrome that blights so many on the progressive left as to how to address all of this – Christ, they can’t even share the same building as people they disagree with. It makes me wonder aloud if we shouldn’t just bite the bullet and abandon it all to nature once more. To go full ‘I Am Legend’ on its ass, say cheerio, and clear out. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Then our deer friend (pun intended) could roam until its heart’s content around the fields of Plumbase, unmolested by your correspondent or others.
It could even use what was left of the cycle path. Should they ever get around to finishing it. I won’t live to see it. But one day maybe, one day.
Holes for Square Poles
(An Ode to the Holes On The Leith Water Shoals)
Tim Taylor’s poetry/prose piece for the Archifringe at George Browns on The Shore concerning the mysterious constellation of square holes (138) carved in the paving stones outside Fishers, The Shore Bar and George Browns
One hundred holes
And thirty eight more Scattered along the shore
At first glance at random
Constellated impressions
Square shallow holes
In sandstone slabbed shoals
On the Leith water docks of old
Did Mary of Guise
Brush past these holes?
Robert the Bruce?
Czar Nicholas II?
Mary Queen of Scots?
Andrew Lamb of Lambs House?
King George IV?
On his way to the newly built New Town
Famed men of pen
Boswell and Johnson?
Importers of wine
Rannie and Bell?
With bills stacked high
Run up by Prince Charlie
Sailors laid up in the Seamen’s Hostel
Now a hotel for lubbers of land?
And George Brown of course
Maker of bicycles, boats and machines
Blacksmith and caster
Repairer of vessels
Degausser of keels
Rendered safe from Mines
o’ War
Did each hole
A purpose have?
These small minor holes
Centuries old
Dells, indents, pixels
Made with intent
For what?
Enquiry is made
Theories espoused
Explanations postulated:
To hold the ropes
Of the tethered boats?
To pin the sails of the tall ships at rest?
Laid out and flayed
In the sunshine on Leith
Thick yarn in needles
Fixing the holes
Blasted open at sea
“Loud roar’d the blast
Aye the southward we fled
With masts creaking leaning
In horror and dread”
Praying they weren’t
Splinter’d and smashed
By the roaring rolling seas
The sailors return to the bar
Drunk to be back on dry land
Terra Ferma!
Terra Scotia!
Are these Leith’s own hieroglyphs and runes?
Or were they to pin down the mariner
Who dared to shoot down the albatross
In a doldrum delirium crazed haze?
“God save thee ancient mariner!”
Or the dock-side publican?
Who dared to serve slop
From the troughs of his bar
To sailors on shore leave
Intent no repent
The sailors they sing their prayer: “Oh lord above
Send down a dove
With wings as sharp as razors
To slit the throat
Of them there blokes
That serves bad beer to sailors”
Or were they to prop up the awnings
Of the merchant trading sellers?
Wool, glass and herrings
Pieces of cheese
Leaving these shores
Barrels of booze
Arriving in scores
The above, all accepted
The evidence suggests M’ Lord with respect
These diminutive impressions
Pixilated depressions
Were as and when required
Formed by a lad
With a hammer and chisel
Then fitted with dook
Or wedge, poll or peg
To hold the goods
Of far flung lands
In place on the shore
Sure and steadfast
Imports, exports
Barrels of Claret
Crates of silk
Oak lath and flour
Butter from Denmark
Claret and cloth
Sherry and port
Iron and malt
Pallets of arms
Figgets of freight
Shored up on the shore
By poles jammed in holes
Square poles in square holes
Chiseled by hand
On the Leith shores of yore
And where are they now
These holes of old?
Silent observers to the footfall of tourists
And the general milieu
Of everyday Leith
Collectors of butts
Soil, dirt and dust
Masonry debris
Windblown sands
From the crested waves
Of vertiginous dunes
Saharan dust
Flown thousands of miles to Leith
Beneath the feet of drinker’s shoes
Patiently waiting for their Champagne and food
Pale ale and mild
Oysters and stout
Tick follows tock follows tick follows tock
The ghosts of the sailors remain
“Here’s to you Ahab!
Here’s to your dream
For the sake of hate
You spat your last breath
Here’s to you! And all who remember your soul”
Holes no more filled
Except for the occasional
Leg of a table
Or diner’s stiletto
But look!
There is blown
On the back of a mistral
A seed that has fallen
Embedded the infill
And within this square hole
Watered by clouds
Raised from the oceans
A miniature oasis of green
Blooming
Taking hold
Daring to dream architecturefringe.com
On the Other Side of the Pond
The taxi driver regards us with a mixture of amusement and sorrow.
“There’s four of you?” Rodger Evans nods…
He opens the boot or, in local argot, the trunk and starts to clear some of the fast food and other less identifiable detritus from the front passenger seat. What doesn’t end up in the trunk is piled to one side and I’m invited to sit down, a decision I come to regret only later when checking the state of the backside of my cream coloured Levi’s.
He drives us the 20 minutes it takes to get from LA’s modern art museum to the Elliott Smith tribute wall on West Sunset Boulevard, all the while maintaining a manic commentary on where else we should visit. I know from the Uber app that his name is Sean, and he’s quick to disclose his Irish roots when he learns we’re Scots, but he could be Otto the school bus driver from the Simpsons. Or at least his twin, the back of his hair looking like a wig attached to that blue baseball hat. During Sean’s entertaining if disconcerting monologue, disconcerting because he shows us pictures on his phone while navigating the six-lane freeway, he mentions his stint as a waiter in Dublin and also that he was a Marine. We opt not to inquire further about the details of his military service.
We go to a hipsterish café where most of the 20-something customers toil over laptops. This is America for sure but which America? The Amerika with a K, suitably enough, a place of escape imagined but never visited by Franz Kafka for his first novel? The ‘not happy, not contented, not radiant, not fearless’ America ruefully observed by Henry Miller in his memoir The Air Conditioned Nightmare? Or the America venerated in Alistair Cooke’s letters but one seen to veer between ‘its vitality and its decadence’?
When we arrive at LAX a week earlier, the official at passport control could not be nicer were he offering home-made cookies and a jug of iced tea. He discusses forensic qualifications with my wife and jokes with my youngest child about the length of her fingers. It reminds me of visiting Israel for the first time, between intifadas I probably ought to point out, to watch Celtic play
This is America but which America?
On the train from Ventura to Union Station, the conductor’s colleague looked decidedly like Deputy Dog
Happel Tel Aviv. I asked the young women behind the glass if she’d mind not stamping my passport and she replied that, as I had asked so nicely, how could she refuse? An unexpected response which might have been helped by the number of guys in front of me asking if she wanted a ticket for the game. I didn’t know the Hebrew word for doll and nor did they but for the record it’s booba. No smirking now. On our second visit to La La Land, on the train from Ventura to Union Station, the conductor could be Snoop Dog while his colleague on the return leg is decidedly more Deputy Dog. After a less frightening taxi ride, we reached the corner of heaven on Hollywood Boulevard that is Amoeba Music. My middle child chooses a Bob Dylan record before he and the rest of the family depart, gifting me with two more hours in the store. For a store it is. I’m like a diabetic in a sweet shop, or candy store, only this is the largest independent sweet shop / candy store in the world.
Outside, blood sugar metaphor and most of my dollars spent, I have in my head Bobby Womack’s cover of California Dreamin’ because you see I am mostly a literal minded kind of dolt.
I check my phone to find if my loved ones have divorced me yet and take a picture of Robert Mitchum’s star on the sidewalk. Yes, Stephen Malkmus, the sidewalk. I walk a block and a half to see the Capital Records building, “the house that Nat built” as it’s known, given how many copies Cole’s Unforgettable LP sold in 1952. It’s also where Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee and the Beach Boys recorded some of their greatest tracks.
A few days on, I sip orange wine in a restaurant under the late afternoon sun, the petals falling from the surrounding coral trees of a colour complementing the contents of my glass. The bartender asks where I’m from. Says he’s a musician, a drummer. No I don’t smirk. He tells me he loves Scottish music and I inquire who his favourite band might be. He says The Jam and I find myself not smirking for a second time. He also mentions the Waterboys and I tell him we used to live in the same tenement – obviously I don’t say tenement – in Abbeyhill where Mike Scott wrote The Whole Of The Moon.
This may or may not be true but America is a land of stories after all and he smiles and tops up my glass.
Emma G. Gallegos
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…Ventures Forth
It’s been another packed August: incredulous visitors marvelling at the enormity of the Fringe
Bespectacled opera buffs attended the real Festival, and locals muttered darkly at map-studying tourists who don’t understand the complex relationship between South Bridge and the Cowgate. Like every resonant cliché, of course, there is a kernel of truth. There really was a lot of tourists in Edinburgh this year – maybe the tram makes it seem so in Leithand the pavements are still pretty narrow. So in August, this glutton likes to hot-foot it out of town.
First stop, just off the bypass at Fairmilehead, the Secret Herb Garden nestles in the gentle swoop of the Pentland foothills. In summer, this part of town seems warmer,
although the winter snow lies stubbornly when the weather is cold. The café here serves excellent breakfasts, lunches and light meals. Soups, salads and quiches include produce grown on site – effort always to be rewarded – and remember to leave room for cake. The charm is the setting. The tables are dotted through three giant glasshouses, each overflowing with vines, figs, grapes, and other exotic fruits of which we know little here in Leith. It is one of my favourite places to eat south of Princess Street, but frankly that’s not saying much and I am yet to go to Mara’s Picklery in Marchmont; I hear tremendous things.
And so back in the car, we are forced to choose: M8 or M9. We take the road less travelled towards Falkirk, and pull in at the
Champany Inn outside Linlithgow. This is where the 1980s steakhouse vibe has gone to die but, reader, I can report that the patient is showing no signs of decline. Opened by the late South African cook Clive Davidson and his wife over 40 years ago, the same things seem to be going on for ever. The preposterous lobster bar didn’t survive a recent financial crash, but the prawn cocktail clings on, probably unaltered since the doors opened. The Champany Inn is all about the steaks. I’ve been on and off for decades. The quality is consistent and the quantity of meat daunting. Many steaks are cooked on charcoal grills. I remember, perhaps in the last century, a frilly-aproned waitress offering me a choice of
Continued on Page 22
Champany Inn
The magic of Leith is not that it stays the same
Continued from Page 21
fifteen mustards from identical silver bowls. A faded, framed AA Gill review (it was brutal) is on the wall. Everything about the place screams Gordon Gecko excess. And, however unlikely, it retains a curious, brash charm that you can’t find anywhere else.
And so we are back in the car, zooming over the Queensferry Crossing and heading to Fife. I hear a muttering of bewilderment in the readership as this reviewer announces they are heading to the Kingdom. But there is a lot happening over there, especially on the coast. We have a triumphant pub meal at The Ship Inn in Elie, that little part of Fife that is forever Chelsea. A cricket match on the beach is an unlikely sight in a Scottish local authority famed for having, until recently, the last elected communist councillor in Britain. The struggle takes many forms, and nothing is too good for the workers.
But cricket on the beach is what Elie is known for, and we are accidentally there for the local derby, with the home team lining up against the Earlsferry first eleven. Polo tops and pashminas floated in and out of the sandstrewn bar, ordering local beers, cheering on the innings. When the time came, we were whisked upstairs to a fabulous beach-side table with floor-to-ceiling windows, ready to watch the final over. The menu here is ambitious, and well beyond gastropub levels,
but the fish and chips hit the spot. As they were bowled out on the beach, we bowled over inside.
One fast bowl northwards, St Monan’s Smokehouse has put that east neuk village firmly on the foodie map. Hot smoked seabass is the signature dish here, served as part of an excellent fish-led menu. The best part: eating on the pier and watching boats glide in. Never mind the cricket, these are working ports that sustain an in-shore fishery community.
Once a month, the Bowhouse Market gathers and pays homage to gluttony. This is a magnet for foodies: producers, sellers, buyers, eaters. It is honestly one the best things about
living in Scotland. Some travel from far and wide; others have their production there weekround. The on-site butchery is particularly impressive. In season, the best soft fruit in Europe, grown a stone’s throw away, is piled high. “Bowhouse replaces the missing link in our local food chain,” their slogan goes. It is sadly true that fewer and fewer people have a strong link to food production. We have truly lost something. But judging by the thronging car park and bustling market sheds, there is a market for honest food.
Back in the car toward Leith, I get thinking. I spend a lot of time in Leith; even more so, the more wonderful our diverse community becomes. There are more reasons to eat local, and increasingly fewer reasons to trek into other parts of Edinburgh. Heck, you can even buy Iain Mellis cheese at Gull’s Grocery on Ferry Road. I resolve not to become too smug about our area, however. The wonderful food we can get in restaurants here relies on farmers and producers across the Lothians, Fife, and much further afield.
“Wha’s like us,” is never going to be a motto for Leithers. As the gentrification of Leith powers on with extraordinary abandon, I reflect that we are more connected than we think. The magic of Leith is not that it stays the same, but that it draws on and celebrates different perspectives, people, and cultures.
And there was me thinking I was writing a food column.
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I first took my seat in Parliament, I was filled with excitement and determination
Representing Edinburgh North and Leith, the place I call home, is the honour of my life.
After twelve months of hard work, learning, and listening, I want to share some reflections on this year and what lies ahead
Getting Started
My focus has always been clear: to bring the voices of Edinburgh North and Leith to the heart of government. Over the past year, I have built relationships across parties and committees, learned the ropes to pass legislation, and worked to understand the issues that matter most to our community.
Being an MP is about more than debates and votes in Westminster. It is about the day-to-day work: meeting constituents, helping them navigate government services, championing local causes, and delivering change. Whether it is supporting a family with housing or pushing for better local infrastructure, my office is here for you.
Championing Edinburgh North and Leith’s Priorities
Edinburgh North and Leith is a vibrant and diverse community, with a proud industrial past, from the Port of Leith and manufacturing to creative arts, hospitality, technology, and multinational companies like Diageo. This rich mix of businesses is a real strength, and I am proud to support it every day. We are also seeing exciting growth in film and television studios and theatres, putting Leith on the map as a hub for creative production, adding to our city’s world-class reputation in the arts.
I have strongly advocated for the GB Energy headquarters to be based in Leith, placing our community at the heart of the renewables transition. This would help tackle climate change, create sustainable local jobs, and position Leith as a leader in the green economy. Over the year, I have campaigned for affordable housing, better public transport, and more investment in local jobs. Too many people in our community face housing insecurity, and I have been vocal about the urgent need for more council homes and tenant protections.
I have raised these issues in Parliament, highlighting Edinburgh North and Leith’s needs in debates and committee meetings. But real change requires partnerships. That is why I work closely with local organisations, businesses, and the council to find practical solutions that make a difference. Working together to deliver growth and prosperity for businesses, reduce poverty, and ensure that all our citizens don’t just survive but can thrive.
Eradicating Childhood Poverty
Tackling childhood poverty has been a core mission. In Parliament, I have pointed out that one in six children in my constituency grow up in poverty, a statistic we must change.
I have pressed the government to consider removing the two-child cap on benefits, a policy affecting 330 households in Leith alone. While it is not a cure-all, removing this cap would relieve financial strain on many families. I have also called for increased investment in affordable housing and employment support. These are vital steps to lift families out of poverty and give children the opportunities they deserve.
Ending Violence Against Girl
Ending violence against girls is another issue close to my heart. I recently questioned the Home Secretary on how the government plans to work
with devolved nations to meet targets aimed at reducing violence against women and girls. Violence against women affects children’s life chances; protecting women ensures better outcomes for children. A coordinated UK-wide approach is essential to equip all regions to tackle this pressing problem that is sadly getting worse. I have also raised concerns about the demand driving sex trafficking, an issue that often goes unseen. Bringing this to light is the first step toward a society where women and girls can live free from fear and exploitation.
Listening and Learning
Listening has been key to my work. Whether it is climate change or local schools, I want your voices to be heard loud and clear. Democracy must be accessible to all, and I am fortunate to have been selected to put forward a Private Member’s Bill which, if passed through the Lords, will align absent, online, and proxy voting applications across the UK.
Looking Ahead
While proud of what we have achieved, there is so much more to do. The challenges we face, from economic uncertainty to climate change, require bold ideas and sustained effort.
My focus has always been clear: to bring the voices of Edinburgh North and Leith to the heart of government
In the months ahead, I will continue to push for policies that support working families, protect our environment, and invest in public services. Ensuring Edinburgh North and Leith gets the funding it deserves remains my top priority.
If you ever want to get in touch, share your thoughts, or need assistance, please do not hesitate to reach out. Thank you for your support and for giving me the opportunity to serve our community of Edinburgh North and Leith in Parliament.
Tracy Gilbert: MP for Edinburgh North & Leith
The Art of Comedy
Lawrence Lettice attempts to tickle the funny bone that makes comedians tick
Awise man once said that comedy is merely tragedy turned upside down...perhaps he wasn’t far off the truth?
So, whilst glancing over this year’s mammoth Fringe brochure, I arrived at the conclusion that the world is full of would be comedians...though I guess you could make the current occupant of 10 Downing street, an honourable exception.
It’s a funny old game being a comic, and it’s also fascinating and intriguing as to how someone standing alone on a stage and with just a few well-turned phrases and remarks, can make you howl with laughter.
This then beggars the question that has always mystified and puzzled me: Are comedians brains wired up differently to everyone else? For instance, do they see the world from a completely different angle than the rest of us? Or is their ability to constantly cause chuckles viewed as a natural talent, a gift they were born with, or something that is learned, grafted and studied over any number of years.
Then again, the art of comedy comes in all forms and guises. Not all are Ken Dodd style court jesters, as there are mordant comics, cynical comics, slapstick comics, surreal comics & political comics (quite a few notable examples there, I guess!)
As I look back over my childhood and teen years, I recall a number of my old school pals and former work colleagues who could automatically come out with a steady stream of hilarious gags, cutting comedic observations, and blunderbuss insults, that left me helpless with laughter as to how clever they were in any given situation.
So from such modest and humble laughter inducing beginnings, originally developed in a classroom, office, pub or factory floor, can it eventually evolve and grow into later fame & success on stage, TV & radio? Certainly for many a comedian (Billy Connolly and Ricky Gervais instantly spring to mind) that route has proven enormously productive and persuasive.
So with the country presently engulfed in much doom, gloom, despondency and despair, the chance to enjoy a right good belly laugh, was the ideal medicine to be prescribed. Take this year’s Festival Fringe for example, as I decided to see two highly popular comics who
Make ‘em Laugh!!
Laurel and Hardy in Hanna-Barbera land, and John Shuttleworth sticker
both enjoy a loyal following, as well as radically contrasting comedic styles.
First up, was Tam Cowan. Who since the 1990s, has become a welcomingly familiar face and voice on radio, TV, theatre stages, newspaper columns, football grounds; whilst not forgetting numerous eating establishments throughout Scotland.
Combining a razor-sharp wit, acute observational skills, as well as firing off gags and one-liners in all directions, he offered up a master-class in old fashioned Scottish comedy patter that was lapped up by an appreciative audience.
Combining a razor-sharp wit and acute observational skills, Tam Cowan delivered a masterclass
Taking pot-shot at Glasgow’s ‘Old Firm’, while demolishing the questionable laughter quota of ‘PC comedy’, this ‘bon vivant’ of the airwaves and local curry houses offered up a joyous performance that left the audience gasping for breath, while gasping for more!
Though his style is never malicious or intentionally cruel, he channels a recognisable benevolent aggression, that stems from a typical, uncomplicated, no-nonsense Scottish working class background, that many could instantly identify with.
Then we come to the comedy character of John Shuttleworth, someone entirely different, but no less
amusing. Much like Steve Coogan’s priceless creation of Alan Partridge, the creator of Mr Shuttleworth is the actor Graham Fellows. Who in a previous life, enjoyed brief pop fame as ‘Jilted John’. John Shuttleworth arrives fully formed as a mild mannered, cosily familiar Yorkshire suburban family man, with delusions of musical grandeur as an accomplished singersongwriter – complete with his trusty organ. Not quite in the Elton John bracket, one might say. Though his easy going monologues touch upon the dull, the bland and the mundane aspects of everyday life, he manoeuvres through this comfy image with welltimed acerbic observations, accompanied by a high level of devastating wit.
Surprisingly, out of all those musings, what emerges are tales of genuine hilarity.
Looking back, one of the funniest men I ever knew, was my former Leith FM broadcasting buddy, Ricky Callan; while I recall my Dad talking admirably about a man he regarded as hilarious, Edinburgh’s own Alex ‘Happy’ Howden.
In the final analysis, who for me stand tallest in the world of comedy? Why. that is a shoo in…
Mr Laurel & Mr Hardy, of course.
Tracy Gilber t M
Tracygilbertmp
Tracy Gilbert MP tracygilbert72
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On behalf of Leith Harbour and Newhaven Community Council, Leith Links Community Council, and Leith Central Community Council.
Community Councils
Newhaven, a place divided
When I was a bairn I knew the boundaries of the village I lived in within the city of Edinburgh, remembers Dr George A Venters
When Leith Dock Commission started reclaiming land during the war those of us living on the eastern edge of the village had a huge area where we could play in what we called the “Eckie” (Extension) by the time it finished. So we saw the makings of a greater Newhaven rising from the sea before our eyes.
The only time I can remember a boundary mattering to us was when we went marauding into Leith to steal wood for our bonfires to celebrate the end of the war. However they began to matter for real after the introduction of Local Government (Scotland) Act 1973, and Community Councils (CCs) were established as a statutory tier of local democracy.
Their purpose, as defined by the Act, is ‘to ascertain, co-ordinate and express to the local authorities for its area and to public authorities the views of the community which it represents...’
This legislation was enacted more than 50 years ago by a UK Conservative Government that Scotland never voted for. It was designed to give power to as many Tory councils as could be gerrymandered into existence by the prevailing Conservative government.
Community Councils were set up as an attempt to promote public engagement with the new councils on a voluntary basis. Generally you can recruit well motivated volunteers trying to do the best for the community they live in, so Community Councils came into existence and are still functioning after a fashion thanks to the commitment of a variety of committed volunteers. But they never have had executive power.
How effective they are, depends on their relationship with the various Council committees and statutory authorities. What has emerged in Edinburgh over the years is a mixtermaxter of Community Councils. While
some on the list are readily recognisable well established locations as former villages engulfed by Edinburgh’s expansion such as Colinton and Newhaven, others seem to have been defined by drawing a line on the map, e.g. West Pilton and West Granton.
There is the possibility of establishing 47 of them in Edinburgh and the scheme was confirmed as operating by the council after review in September last year despite their fundamental flaws, the most basic being the lack of definition of what should comprise a community council and their lack of executive power to get things done.
To make things happen, Community Councils have to rely on the interest and advocacy of whatever local councillor (if any) attends the meetings. Over the years it seems that, at best, they provide a one-way street from councils and statutory authorities to be able to tick the box of consulting with the public on proposals coming their way.
Nor is it properly keeping the residents in the loop regarding developments that matter and are imminent. One of the local councillors who sits on the traffic committee was not informed in advance of a three year through traffic closure of and to a key artery into the village. Communication failures seem to be endemic between council officers and departments and us, the people, have failed. We have to improve matters.
As of 25th March 2025 the council divided the Council representation of the area into two parts in adjacent community councils without speaking to the people. To us it makes no sense and we oppose it.
There is hope.
Kids playing in ‘the Eckie’ in the early 1970s would see this building begin to tower above them…
From Newhaven’s perspective they have been ineffectual in achieving much needed improvements in the village. Despite it being the City’s front door to cruise and other seaborne visitors it has been consistently deprived of investment to maintain the fabric and appearance of the village to the extent that it has been described in one travel website as ‘looking like a second rate housing scheme’ though the residents have been working hard over many years to improve the environment. Certainly, substantial investment seems to be occurring in adjacent council areas to the east and west of the village.
Recently the council produced a booklet called Edinburgh, the Learning City. The advice it gives and the approach it takes is very much coming from and based in the people themselves. We think that this is the right way to go. We are developing an activist approach in which committed people see what the community needs and are prepared to lead efforts to meet them.
We are setting up the ‘Newhaven Action Group’ as a specific committee of Newhaven Heritage. It has the simple remit of “making Newhaven a better place to live” and be led by the residents themselves.
We are happy to discuss with anyone how to set it up and make it work to create a better Newhaven and City.
10 If force of wealth is confusing, you may turn to him (7,2, 3,3)
11 Lit, editing out (7)
12 Pot pain with flair (7)
13 Crash scary din but not F1 (8)
15 City on the turn (5)
18 Not here partly true (5)
20 Herb lets out gossips (8)
23 Create urge where bells are found (7)
25 Discusses bed seat perhaps (7)
26 Band with Tories on board, see 10 (15)
27 Express contempt in sadder idea (6)
Across Down
1 Symbolic veneration 198!? (6)
2 Ref in cane thrashing so needs more lolly (9)
3 Cattily scratched understood (7)
4 Tried out beat (5)
6 Lo! Thane drunk but not on this (7)
7 Fire licensee in from old time (5)
8 Last of the Mohicans and first of Dakota seen from a distance (8)
9 Teetotal in deep snow? (3-5)
14 Atmosphere of a doctor with confused niece (8)
16 What waiter has to do and DJ needs (9)
17 Part beast “rip”, pedestrian left naked (8)
28 Pagans grill birds (8) Answers crossword 143
19 At bath I splashed around in my home (7)
21 Indicated vice den perhaps (7)
22 Shown to their seats by decapitated drug dealers (6)
24 Two notes stated sun (5)
25 Twist caned! Yes! (5)
Winner: Ivor Normand, Edinburgh
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