Late afternoon in dark and dreary November. Wreaths of smoke and mist swirl around the glistening damp blocks of sour granite. Echoes of footsteps ring off the high walls of the close, while dark forbidding doorways watch impassively.

Not much has changed since Burke and Hare stole along these passages in the nineteenth century with fresh, or not so fresh, bodies for the medical students in the Infirmary to practise their dissection skills on.

The worn flags underfoot wind deeper into the labyrinth of narrow alleys, or closes, made all the more intimidating by the haloed lights glimmering through the raw air. A doorway suddenly opens, but it is warm ochre light that floods out with the welcome sound of voices and laughter and music. Inside the Tam O’Shanter, glowing coals in a grate, the scrape of a fiddle and a dram of Glenfiddich soon chase away the gloom.

Auld Reekie, home to Dr Johnston, the Fringe and shopping for Christmas. Princes Street and all the other little streets off it will soon drain your pounds, euro, dollars...

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