Bannermans, the interior thereof, as requested by Vinaigrette Girl.
A pub in the Cowgate, a basement level street in the Old Town of Edinburgh down which the social effluent of the city flow every weekend. Clubs and pubs line both sides of the street. It’s so busy that in the evening its closed to traffic, such is the volume of pissed-up pedestrians wobbling over into the road.
Sometimes, when I’m bored on an RRU in the City Centre I drive, ever so slowly, down the Cowgate and pretend I’m in a zombie movie. It’s surprisingly convincing and consequentially awesome.
But in the middle of this shit-heap of shit-heads, there’s Bannermans. Built into the vaulted arches that hold up the cathedral and court buildings above it, it’s a low-roofer, snug, welcoming rock bar. With live music. And punters who are not arseholes.
The place was deserted, as you can see, but the landlady was touched by Louis’ story and let me set up the tripod for this looooong exposure shot.
Rock fans aren’t arseholes.
It’s one of life’s unquestionable truths.