Those of you who have followed my time in Scotland, both during this trip and during the time that I lived in Edinburgh, will probably at some point in the game have heard me talk of The Espy. The Espy, in a word, is nothing less than the greatest pub in Scotland (in my humble opinion, of course). When I lived in Portobello, I was lucky enough to be a scant half block away from the pub, and I made my way there at every opportunity, even going so far as to make sure I still had an Espy fund when the rest of my social money had dried up completely.
When I moved back to Canada last November, I missed the pub like it was flesh-and-blood family. I pined for their nachos and their comfortable couch. I wanted nothing more than the chance to walk up to their door again and snuggle myself into their chairs and spend an afternoon writing away. I visited their webpage to keep up on all things Espy-related. I thought about the place so much that sometimes it still felt like I was there. And so, when the opportunity for this trip came up, naturally one of the things I was most excited about was the chance to see the pub again. And two days after the wedding, that's exactly what I did. I took the bus out to Portobello on a lovely summer's day and walked up to their door. There it was, squat and cheerful on the beach as ever. I could hear music, drifting out from inside. Laughter. The tinkle of glasses. It sounded like every other pub on the face of the planet, but only more special, because it was mine. I'm here, I thought. I'm finally here. If my life was a soundtrack, at that moment in time At Last would have been wafting through the air. Etta James would have been standing by the pub door, arms open, ready to welcome me in. It was a magical, wonderful feeling.
And then I walked into the pub, and nothing happened.
No one recognized me. No one smiled. No one ran up with arms wide open and shouted Amanda, at last! We've been waiting for you! I stood there, in this lovely little place that I'd been dreaming about for months, and the pub itself whirled in business around me, completely unconcerned. Which is, of course, what any sane person should expect. Who in their right mind misses a bar, and expects that the bar itself will miss them, in return? Who does that?
Me. That's who. But then, I am not the sanest person in the world, as you will probably know if you read this little blog. I'm not insane, surely, but maybe a little farther down the "questionable" spectrum than most people. Neurotic. Intense. Given to inappropriate and long-lasting fixations on things like lovely bars and excellent books. In short, I suppose, I'm a perfectly normal writer. So maybe it's only natural that these attachments arise. I don't know. George Orwell, after all, fixated on a bar that wasn't even real.
Anyway. On that particular day, I suffocated the crushing disappointment that arose in the wake of my Espy non-welcome, and found myself a table. The tea was as wonderful as I remembered and the scone was delicious. And the server, of course, can be forgiven for not welcoming me with open arms, as she was new, or had at least been hired in the eight months that had passed since I'd last been at the bar.
I went to the pub a few more times over the course of my two week trip, and things got better every time. It started to feel like home again. I once more felt that mix of struggle and elation that usually came whenever I visited the pub in the past -- the struggle that came from sitting and trying to work and feel inspired and get those words out, and the elation that always came from knowing that the pub was special, that it was just a lovely little place in which to be, that I was lucky enough to be near it and be able to place it in my list of Portobello memories. When I was destitute and struggling in my little apartment, those stolen Espy moments -- a few hours at a time away from the crush of my financial woes, a few blissful hours spent writing and dreaming and catching the odd conversation in a bar so red and warm -- made me, I think, in a way that few other things in Scotland did. They taught me a lot about how important it is to find these things that inspire you, these things that spur you on. How important it is, as an artist, to find these places that nurture and comfort you all at once. The Espy, as it turned out, had a number of valuable lessons for me.
Today, one day before I was due to fly back to Canada, I went to the pub again. I went for breakfast, because next to the nachos (and, okay, my favourite bartender, who hasn't been there for over a year now but still persists on holding that Perfect Scottish Man prize in my mind), a breakfast at The Espy is one of the most delightful things you'll find anywhere in Scotland. I am not exaggerating, here. Seriously -- the breakfasts are phenomenal. They are also so beautiful that I usually feel bad (at first) about eating them. When the bartender brought me my breakfast today, he put it on the table and said, "I'm so jealous -- that looks amazing."
Of course, I took a few pictures.
It was delicious, as usual. And, oh, I don't know, but sitting there, eating that breakfast, staring out over the sea -- it was just lovely. I felt as though everything was right in the world again, and all because I was sitting in a lovely spot and eating scrumptious food.
But also, I think, because so much about the pub inspires me. Bars in general are great spots for eavesdropping, and I took quite a few gems away from my hours in the lounge. (Having a huge crush on the bartender, as above, also doesn't hurt. Unrequited love is so wonderful for the pen.) Months ago, when I was getting ready to leave Scotland, I was telling my best friend about the bar and admitting, quite openly, that my fascination with it was probably a little weird. She just shrugged, bless her.
"Maybe it was your muse," she said, "for a little while. The stories that came out of there, the things that you felt -- you'll write about all of that, eventually. What was and what you imagined could be. There's nothing wrong with that."
I like that. I do think, a lot of the time, that what could be is oftentimes just as powerful as what is -- that the dreams we have and the things we imagine have every bit as much of an impact on how we conduct ourselves and our lives as do those things that happen to us every day. My Espy days were as much about dreams as they were about lovely food and a space to hide out from the rain. And what do you know, but months down the line, some of those things that I wrote while at the Espy are on the brink of getting shown to the world. The novel (and the subsequent book offer) that sits on my hard drive came about as a result of many Espy hours spent scribbling and typing and staring out at the rain, and refuelling myself with tea.
So, I guess, what I'm trying to say here is this. Scotland held a lot of dreams for me -- the dream of getting there, the dream of a master's degree, the dream of my own life, wrestled hard-won from the rock and stone and sea. It was hard, yes. Parts of it were unbelievably hard. But parts of it were also unbelievably beautiful, and this pub -- as cheerful and quiet and unassuming as it is -- was one of those parts.
The pub continues on without me, of course. In fact, you'd probably be hard pressed to find anyone closely associated with the pub who will know exactly what it meant and means to me. If I am remembered at all, it's probably just as the weirdo who sat in a corner and scribbled the hours away. (The owner of the bar, as it happened, did recognize me when I came in for breakfast today. I had an overwhelming urge to thank her for the bar in its entirety, but she was conducting an interview, and so I said nothing. Probably for the best, that. Like I said, I don't think anyone who actually works there will quite know how special the pub was for me.)
But all of this makes me wonder, in general, about us writers. And the things that inspire us, the things that nurture us and keep us soldiering on. Is it a lovely pub, for you? A good coffee house? That person you see on the sidewalks every day who holds a hundred untold stories? Sometimes these things just grab hold of us, and won't let go. I wonder: does JK Rowling feel the same way about The Elephant House, that cute little Edinburgh café that now has as its claim to fame the fact that it was the birthplace of Harry Potter? The Espy has a hold on me, somehow. I will think about the pub and its people long after these people have moved on to other careers, and forgotten all about the girl in the corner with her notebook. It will probably make its way, somehow, into my next novel. That's how much I love it. That's how grateful I am for its breakfasts, its nachos, its lovely views over the sea.
As it turned out, I wrote an essay about the bar after all. My friend was right -- it was a muse. It will probably continue to be a muse for me for as long as it is in operation. And maybe, if I am truly lucky, I'll be able to move back to Portobello one day and relive those Espy moments. Or maybe there's another place in Canada that holds the same kind of joy. I hope so. I can't stress how much I long for it.
When I moved back to Canada last November, I missed the pub like it was flesh-and-blood family. I pined for their nachos and their comfortable couch. I wanted nothing more than the chance to walk up to their door again and snuggle myself into their chairs and spend an afternoon writing away. I visited their webpage to keep up on all things Espy-related. I thought about the place so much that sometimes it still felt like I was there. And so, when the opportunity for this trip came up, naturally one of the things I was most excited about was the chance to see the pub again. And two days after the wedding, that's exactly what I did. I took the bus out to Portobello on a lovely summer's day and walked up to their door. There it was, squat and cheerful on the beach as ever. I could hear music, drifting out from inside. Laughter. The tinkle of glasses. It sounded like every other pub on the face of the planet, but only more special, because it was mine. I'm here, I thought. I'm finally here. If my life was a soundtrack, at that moment in time At Last would have been wafting through the air. Etta James would have been standing by the pub door, arms open, ready to welcome me in. It was a magical, wonderful feeling.
And then I walked into the pub, and nothing happened.
No one recognized me. No one smiled. No one ran up with arms wide open and shouted Amanda, at last! We've been waiting for you! I stood there, in this lovely little place that I'd been dreaming about for months, and the pub itself whirled in business around me, completely unconcerned. Which is, of course, what any sane person should expect. Who in their right mind misses a bar, and expects that the bar itself will miss them, in return? Who does that?
Me. That's who. But then, I am not the sanest person in the world, as you will probably know if you read this little blog. I'm not insane, surely, but maybe a little farther down the "questionable" spectrum than most people. Neurotic. Intense. Given to inappropriate and long-lasting fixations on things like lovely bars and excellent books. In short, I suppose, I'm a perfectly normal writer. So maybe it's only natural that these attachments arise. I don't know. George Orwell, after all, fixated on a bar that wasn't even real.
Anyway. On that particular day, I suffocated the crushing disappointment that arose in the wake of my Espy non-welcome, and found myself a table. The tea was as wonderful as I remembered and the scone was delicious. And the server, of course, can be forgiven for not welcoming me with open arms, as she was new, or had at least been hired in the eight months that had passed since I'd last been at the bar.
I went to the pub a few more times over the course of my two week trip, and things got better every time. It started to feel like home again. I once more felt that mix of struggle and elation that usually came whenever I visited the pub in the past -- the struggle that came from sitting and trying to work and feel inspired and get those words out, and the elation that always came from knowing that the pub was special, that it was just a lovely little place in which to be, that I was lucky enough to be near it and be able to place it in my list of Portobello memories. When I was destitute and struggling in my little apartment, those stolen Espy moments -- a few hours at a time away from the crush of my financial woes, a few blissful hours spent writing and dreaming and catching the odd conversation in a bar so red and warm -- made me, I think, in a way that few other things in Scotland did. They taught me a lot about how important it is to find these things that inspire you, these things that spur you on. How important it is, as an artist, to find these places that nurture and comfort you all at once. The Espy, as it turned out, had a number of valuable lessons for me.
Today, one day before I was due to fly back to Canada, I went to the pub again. I went for breakfast, because next to the nachos (and, okay, my favourite bartender, who hasn't been there for over a year now but still persists on holding that Perfect Scottish Man prize in my mind), a breakfast at The Espy is one of the most delightful things you'll find anywhere in Scotland. I am not exaggerating, here. Seriously -- the breakfasts are phenomenal. They are also so beautiful that I usually feel bad (at first) about eating them. When the bartender brought me my breakfast today, he put it on the table and said, "I'm so jealous -- that looks amazing."
Of course, I took a few pictures.
But also, I think, because so much about the pub inspires me. Bars in general are great spots for eavesdropping, and I took quite a few gems away from my hours in the lounge. (Having a huge crush on the bartender, as above, also doesn't hurt. Unrequited love is so wonderful for the pen.) Months ago, when I was getting ready to leave Scotland, I was telling my best friend about the bar and admitting, quite openly, that my fascination with it was probably a little weird. She just shrugged, bless her.
"Maybe it was your muse," she said, "for a little while. The stories that came out of there, the things that you felt -- you'll write about all of that, eventually. What was and what you imagined could be. There's nothing wrong with that."
I like that. I do think, a lot of the time, that what could be is oftentimes just as powerful as what is -- that the dreams we have and the things we imagine have every bit as much of an impact on how we conduct ourselves and our lives as do those things that happen to us every day. My Espy days were as much about dreams as they were about lovely food and a space to hide out from the rain. And what do you know, but months down the line, some of those things that I wrote while at the Espy are on the brink of getting shown to the world. The novel (and the subsequent book offer) that sits on my hard drive came about as a result of many Espy hours spent scribbling and typing and staring out at the rain, and refuelling myself with tea.
So, I guess, what I'm trying to say here is this. Scotland held a lot of dreams for me -- the dream of getting there, the dream of a master's degree, the dream of my own life, wrestled hard-won from the rock and stone and sea. It was hard, yes. Parts of it were unbelievably hard. But parts of it were also unbelievably beautiful, and this pub -- as cheerful and quiet and unassuming as it is -- was one of those parts.
The pub continues on without me, of course. In fact, you'd probably be hard pressed to find anyone closely associated with the pub who will know exactly what it meant and means to me. If I am remembered at all, it's probably just as the weirdo who sat in a corner and scribbled the hours away. (The owner of the bar, as it happened, did recognize me when I came in for breakfast today. I had an overwhelming urge to thank her for the bar in its entirety, but she was conducting an interview, and so I said nothing. Probably for the best, that. Like I said, I don't think anyone who actually works there will quite know how special the pub was for me.)
But all of this makes me wonder, in general, about us writers. And the things that inspire us, the things that nurture us and keep us soldiering on. Is it a lovely pub, for you? A good coffee house? That person you see on the sidewalks every day who holds a hundred untold stories? Sometimes these things just grab hold of us, and won't let go. I wonder: does JK Rowling feel the same way about The Elephant House, that cute little Edinburgh café that now has as its claim to fame the fact that it was the birthplace of Harry Potter? The Espy has a hold on me, somehow. I will think about the pub and its people long after these people have moved on to other careers, and forgotten all about the girl in the corner with her notebook. It will probably make its way, somehow, into my next novel. That's how much I love it. That's how grateful I am for its breakfasts, its nachos, its lovely views over the sea.
As it turned out, I wrote an essay about the bar after all. My friend was right -- it was a muse. It will probably continue to be a muse for me for as long as it is in operation. And maybe, if I am truly lucky, I'll be able to move back to Portobello one day and relive those Espy moments. Or maybe there's another place in Canada that holds the same kind of joy. I hope so. I can't stress how much I long for it.
I do think, a lot of the time, that what could be is oftentimes just as powerful as what is -- that the dreams we have and the things we imagine have every bit as much of an impact on how we conduct ourselves and our lives as do those things that happen to us every day.
ReplyDeleteI want to print this out and put this on my wall. I cannot tell you just how much I agree with what you said.
One thing I realised about us writers is that we notice things that a lot of other people never pick up on, and at the same, there are things staring us in the face that other people can plainly see, but not us. There are times, at the end of the day, where I remember fragments of a conversation I had with someone and I'm trying to remember who it was, and later on I'll be mortified to realise that the actual conversation didn't even happen! It was something I imagined that felt real to me, and eventually my brain became confused between real and not-real. So yes, you're probably not as scatter-brained as I am, but I GET what you mean about writers not being 100% sane. And to be honest, I really love that we're like that.
Thank you for this wonderful blog post and giving me food for thought before bed tonight!
Thanks, Islinda! I'm so glad to know that this little piece struck a chord with you. Sometimes I think I'd love to be a sane, responsible, practical person day in and out. It sounds so lovely, sometimes -- such a quiet life, free from destitution and drama!
ReplyDeleteBut then I wake up and remember that I am incapable, on some level, of precisely that kind of quiet life. I will always be dreaming, be scatterbrained, be apt to get inappropriately intense over things. But at this point in the game I think it's just part of my writing life. And so, here I am, welcoming it with open arms.
Roll on the intensity and the longing and the dreams, I say. Roll on.
This was such a gorgeous post. I can relate with so many of these feelings. I traveled twice in Ghana, and going back was just how you described. Life had gone on while I wasn't there, and for some reason it surprised me. But there were still places, like the seaside cafe called Oasis, that inspired me the same way.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for sharing this!
Thanks Shallee! I'm so tickled to know that there have been places like this for you, too. Makes me think that maybe I am not as crazy or intense as I thought. :)
ReplyDeleteHave you written about your Ghana café? I'd love to read what you thought about it.