From the depths of rural Dorset, a county synonymous with Thomas Hardy, the Jurassic coast, and the curiously but aptly-named Dorset knobs, a young lady (or should that now be lassie) has been hit by the culture shock that is Edinburgh. The Athens of the North, a city of countless festivals, and as diverse in population as it is in its stunning architecture, every inch of this jewel in the Scottish crown pulsates with a life that both invigorates and yet at times rushes by with an urgency that is alien to one from a country background. Each month seems to bring something new, a story unfolding around those sitting outside the many pavement bars and restaurants, watching people acting out their lives like scenes from the latest costume drama.
Costume would appear more than appropriate at the moment, as the sporting circus that is the Six Nations comes to town. A city that is already bedecked with more flags than the United Nations, fills every inch of available space with the symbolic ritual of adding Italy, France, Wales, Ireland and England to the constantly fluttering saltire. There is something about ruby fans that is both relaxed yet passionate, an atmosphere of camaraderie filling the city streets. The knights of St. George, the shamrocks of Ireland, crazy Frenchmen in their berets, and mad Italians dressed in anything slightly reminiscent of their national colours, combine with beautiful singing from the Welsh valleys, creating a tournament that is second to none. And then there is the Scottish. Kilts of every size and colour emerge from every corner of Edinburgh to descend on the sacred temple that is Murrayfield. Matched only by the variety of kilts is the somewhat bizarre assortment of legs that can be glimpsed betwixt sock and skirt. Honed legs, hairy legs, legs that have seen better days, legs that are beyond redemption yet must take their place amongst the rest - they are all there for the world to see. And white - they are nearly all white. Is this because the chill Scottish winds necessitate their unwrapping purely for weddings and iconic sporting occasions? And do they, in fact, wear anything underneath? One would trust that cold stadium seats would warrant the wearing of at least a wholesome pair of pants, except maybe for the most hardy Scotsman. Unless, of course, they prove me wrong. One intrepid bar even provides Six Nations burgers, cooked with a hint of the national cuisine from each competing country. And with a wee dram or two before or after, there is plenty to warm the very cockles of the heart, even on the coldest day. Do I like rugby? Yes, I do. Did I allow myself a smug smile when Scotland fell to the might of England? I would be lying if I said no. But after all, it is only a game ...........