A German intern’s take on Edinburgh Books

I am an intern at Edinburgh Books. People in my course of studies have to spend at least three months in an English speaking country. As if that wouldn’t be enough you have to spend a certain time of these three months with something relevant for your studies. This might be a job as a teacher, a semester at a university or, the least likely option, an internship. I chose an internship to see something else than university life or my later job for which we are prepared with several other internships. Little did I know that this would lead me to end up as an intern at this particular bookshop.
What is it like to live and work in this bookshop? To sum it up, it is fun, fun, fun and bits of boredom.
First fun: You get to know the stangest and lovliest of all people. A bookshop seems to be a magnet for quirkiness, celebrities and single mothers who just want to get out of the rain with their wee daughters. Your colleagues range from water buffaloes to grouses and even Americans. The customers are even more diverse. At one point, there was a film crew. They shot a short film about a bookshop owner and half of the people were from Britain while the other half was from Italy. It was fun to see them working together. Oh, and there is the obligatory bookshop dog I fell in love with.
Second fun: You’ll get access to a lot of books. Ranging from the “Little Book of Amputation” and “Scientific Massage to Athletes” to the “Wonkey Eye with Glow in the Dark Effect” book which pictures smoking monkeys and overweight anthropomorphic pigs you’ll find everything you could ever dream of. Well, except for a book about lion babies fighting bacteria in space. But that’s a different story.
Third fun: The records. You’ll find a lovely selection of records. Before I came to Edinburgh, I was a wee bit fond of folk music, however, here I listened to Dick Gaughan and got access Steeleye Span. Three months ago I did not really like country, now I love Dolly Parton for what she is and enjoy Willie Nelson, Mississippi John Hurt and Emmylou Harris. There are quite a few records I always wanted to listen to and Edinburgh Books made that possible.
Bit of boredom: Not unlike every other job, things get a wee bit repetitive after some time. However, you start to realise what it feels like to start such a project. It means for example to build up a stock of books at auctions, deal with people who want to sell their books or sit behind a desk being grumpy and cold all day long. After all, it is a job. There are quite a few romantic aspects about it but you have to pay taxes and employ people. After all, now I am the number one stamp licker in all of Scotland and have a profound knowledge in packing parcels and dealing with customers from all over the world.
Life in a bookshop is a microcosm of interesting people and it all adds up to a special atmosphere where you can lose yourself in discussions about how spies influenced the downfall of Soviet Russia, world religions, George Best and James Clerk Maxwell in half an hour.
As this is the last paragraph the reader might expect some highly emotional lines by the Hoff. In this case I’ll have to disappoint you. I am not a stereotypical German and therefore I’ll just go back and finally wear my leather trousers again and then have pretzels and beer in the beer garden. However: I’ll be back!

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Edinburgh Books cloth bags are now available for mail order, in short-handled and long-handled over the shoulder variants. They feature our beloved Clarence, and you can buy 2 for £5 in the UK, or £7.50 in the rest of the world. Postage is included.

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Edinburgh Books cloth bags are now available for mail order. They feature our beloved Clarence, and you can buy 2 for £5 in the UK, or £7.50 in the rest of the world. Postage is included.

Paypal is our secure card payment processing partner.
You do NOT need a Paypal account to pay for your order.

The West Port is Edinburgh’s Soho, a heady mix of booze, bosoms, bespoke tailoring and BOOKS. Yes, let’s dwell on that word: books.

Edinburgh’s Book Quarter

The other shops

Home to rum clubs, tea apologists and vintage clothing vendors, the West Port is a lively, independent area in Edinburgh that has rather more to it than its obvious, um, ‘assets’. If you fancy a decent pint you could do worse than the Blue Blazer, our lovely local. If you’d like a nice brew then the nearby Tea Tree Café is heartily recommended. If you’d like to get down with the cool kids pop along to Under the Stairs, a shabby chic basement café and bar the other side of the Grassmarket.

Staff

William Lytle, the manager, is married to Anne, his partner in the business, and has two wee boys. William is originally from Ulster and almost has a beard.

Orlene McIlfatrick is an archaeologist and an artist. She is our book repairer in residence and is a dab hand at origami. She is from Ulster.

Doreen Dallas survived the previous regime and continues to be popular with the customers.

Miriam Johnson has a PhD in English Literature, and a Twitter account. She is also managing editor of The Istanbul Review.

Jamie Buchan, the newest addition to the team, is a lanky, myopic would-be criminologist whose PhD is still a long way from completion. He likes hard-boiled crime fiction, coffee and fiddling with computers.

Wildlife

Clarence: his story
Clarence, our water buffalo, has kept a beady eye over the bookshop for many a long year.
Read more…

Graham: his story
Graham the grouse was given to William by staff at Armchair Books when he left to set up his own bookshop.
Read more…

West Port Book Festival

The West Port Book Festival was set up in 2008 by Hannah Adcock and Peggy Hughes to celebrate the profusion of pages in Edinburgh’s book quarter. The festival plays out over 11 wonderful West Port venues, ranging from singular second-hand bookshops to crisp art spaces and whisky-scented pubs.
Read more…

The West Port is Edinburgh’s Soho, a heady mix of booze, bosoms, bespoke tailoring and BOOKS. Yes, let’s dwell on that word: books.

Edinburgh’s Book Quarter

The other shops

Staff

William Lytle, the manager, is married to Anne, his partner in the business, and has two wee boys. William is originally from Ulster and almost has a beard.

Orlene McIlfatrick is an archaeologist and an artist. She is our book repairer in residence and is a dab hand at origami. She is from Ulster.

Doreen Dallas survived the previous regime and continues to be popular with the customers.

Miriam Johnson has a PhD in English Literature, and a Twitter account. She is also managing editor of The Istanbul Review.

Wildlife

Clarence: his story
Clarence, our water buffalo, has kept a beady eye over the bookshop for many a long year.
Read more…

Graham: his story
Graham the grouse was given to William by staff at Armchair Books when he left to set up his own bookshop.
Read more…

West Port Book Festival

[userlog]

About 10% of our stock is listed online with ABE Books.
Click on the any of the catalogues below to browse within a particular section.

Scottish Books

Edinburgh
Scottish Literature and Fiction
Scottish Poetry
Scottish Art
Scottish History
Scottish Church History and Theology
Glasgow and the West
Scottish Borders/Lowlands
Highlands and Islands
East of Scotland
Central Scotland
ALL Scottish Books

Travel & History

China
India
Middle East/Jewish
All of Asia
Africa
Americas (North and South)
Australasia
Ireland
Russia
ALL Travel
History (general)
British History
Social History & Culture
European Travel and History
Military History
Maritime/Naval

Search our entire catalogue

You can search our entire catalogue from the ABE Books website by clicking here.

About 10% of our stock is listed online with ABE Books.
Click on the any of the catalogues below to browse within a particular section.

Scottish Books

Travel & History

India
Middle East/Jewish
All of Asia
Africa
Americas (North and South)
Ireland
Russia
British History
European Travel and History
Military History
ALL Travel

General

Literature
Poetry
Art
Architecture
Children’s
Music
Religion and Theology
Philosophy and related
Ancient History/Classics
Modern Firsts
Science and Medicine
Sport (Golf, cricketing etc.)
Mountaineering

Search our entire catalogue

You can search our entire catalogue from the ABE Books website by clicking here.

The West Port is Edinburgh’s Soho, a heady mix of booze, bosoms, bespoke tailoring and BOOKS. Yes, let’s dwell on that word: books.

Edinburgh’s Book Quarter

The other shops

Staff

William, the manager, is married to Anne and has two wee boys called Calum and Euan. William is originally from Ulster and almost has a beard.

Orlene McIlfatrick is doing a PhD. She is our book repairer in residence and is a dab hand at origami. She is from Ulster.

Doreen Dallas survived the previous regime and continues to be popular with the customers.

Miriam Johnson has a PhD in English Literature, and a Twitter account. She is also managing editor of The Istanbul Review.

Wildlife

Clarence: his story
Clarence, our water buffalo, has kept a beady eye over the bookshop for many a long year.
Read more…

Graham: his story
Graham the grouse was given to William by staff at Armchair Books when he left to set up his own bookshop.
Read more…

West Port Book Festival

Read William and Clarence’s occasional ruminations on life at the bookshop.

Apologies for the lack of recent blogging activity. I have been out to pasture for over a year but I’m fed up with grazing(pun intended) and intend to blog much more frequently…at least one entry every six months.
I was just pricing a wee book of poems by the late Neil R. MacCallum, Scottish nationalist and poet, and I thought I’d share a couple with you. The first is in English and the second in MacCallum’s beloved Lowland Scots.

Bookshop

I attempt
to avert my eyes,
gazing I hope
in another compelling direction,
Or accelerating
with quickening pace
to purposefully stride
so briskly past.
Proceeding as if
some pressing appointment
were commanding
immediate attention.
A useless armour
that excuse
will prove to be
against those arrows,
For she is there
a temptress in full splendour
her windows
winking knowingly.

Nearhaund the Son o God

(Frae the Gaelic o Donnchadh MacRaoiridh, bard tae MacDonald o Sleat, sum tyme round about saxteen-ten)

Tak me wi Ye the Son o God
Tae be richt at Your side
And tae follow efter Ye,
Ma hert and luve sall byde.
For tae incaw* that throu-out tyme
Forenenst** Ye I sall be,
Nae mair tae brak Your Halie Law
Our sins Ye maun foregie.
Anither handsel† we wauld speir‡
The pouer tae grant Ye hae
That sauf our saul sad gang wi Ye
When corp is smoored i clay.
May saul until thon heich throne win
Tae tryst wi thaim that did it mak,
Sin Ye dae ken hou weil I staund
Lord tak me nou, o Lord please tak.

* pray
** facing
† gift
‡ ask

Both of these poems can be found in ‘Portrait of a Calvinist’ by Neil R MacCallum. Published by ‘Scots Independent’, Stirling 1991.

- Clarence

Once in a while we all need some escapism. Some reach for a Terry Pratchett, others pick up an Agatha Christie to get their minds off the cares of the day. My escapist reading is, well, it’s literally escapism. Ever since I was given a copy of Donald Caskie’s ‘The Tartan Pimpernel’ when I was about 11 I’ve loved to read escape stories. Colditz(Pat Reid), Boldness be my Friend(Richard Pape), The Wooden Horse(Eric Williams), The Great Escape(Paul Brickhill), The Latter Days at Colditz(Pat Reid again) are some of the great Second World War escape titles. The Escape literature of the Great War inspired many of the prisoners of WWII to pit their wits against their captors. Many escapers of the ‘39-’45 war had grown up reading such classics as The Tunnellers of Holzminden(Hugh Durnford), The Escaping Club(A.J. Evans), Outwitting the Hun(Pat O’Brien) and determined to make a ‘Home Run’ themselves.

As I read more and more of these stories, I began to have a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. As I finished one title I started to think ‘What if I’ve read all of the escape books out there? What will I do if there are no more?’. Amazingly though these stories have kept appearing right through the late twentieth century, well over fifty years from the end of the war.

An elderly gentleman with what looked like crippling arthritis in his hands bought several Italian Language books one day 4 or 5 years ago. I asked him if he’d lived in Italy and he told me that he’d been captured in North Africa and had been a POW in Italy until he’d walked out of his Camp when Italy withdrew from hostilities in 1943. He had then gone on the run from the Germans(like Eric Newby in his classic ‘Love and War in the Apennines’) and survived in the mountains until the Allies fought their way up Italy and he was able to cross the lines. He told me that he had nearly finished his memoirs and they were due to be published before long.

So these books are still being published and I’m always delighted when another turns up in the shop.
Just last month, in an auction lot, I came across one called ‘Open Road to Faraway – Escapes from Nazi POW Camps 1941-1945′ by Andrew S. Winton (Cualann Press, Dunfermline, 2001).

Andrew’s love of [Robert] Burns’ poetry frequently sustained him in captivity.’
On the run after his final escape which involved being buried alive in a shallow grave, Andrew and his escaping companion managed to cross the fluctuating battle lines and link up with the Russians.

Sometimes amazing things happen in war such as the Christmas Truce on the Western Front in 1914 and Andrew Winton tells of a remarkable evening he experienced on the banks of the River Oder in July 1945. The following is an extract from Chapter 21 of his book.

Burns’ Night on the Oder

On and on we went, allowing nothing to hinder the drive to Berlin. Two days later, the only large obstacle on our way was the River Oder which was partly frozen over in places, with many of the bridges mined. The weather was atrocious; an inch of snow on side of our coats helped to keep us warm, but still it came, almost horizontally, driven by a very strong wind. We reached the river and drove into a large State farm where six tanks took up places on the open side, facing outwards, ready to move. We were inside a large courtyard with out-houses on each side for vehicles and storage for hay and straw. We slipped into a corner in the section of straw and booked a bed. Fired were being lit all round the open yard and clothes and coats were hung up on makeshift hangers to unfreeze and dry out. A large boiler of very thick soup arrived and we were allowed to fill up dixies. This was indeed very satisfying. We settled back in the straw, a bit drowsy and then a voice, a girl’s voice was heard.
‘Where is the Scotsman?’
I felt the hair on my neck rising, and wondered, ‘What next?’ I struggled to my feet, and there she stood, second-in-command of a Russian Women’s Tank Unit, a round muff hat on her head and looking very neat and official in a dark green uniform. She addressed me directly.
‘Do you know what week this is?’
Just a little bewildered, I shook my head.
‘This is Robert Burns’ week, and tonight you will recite his poetry and sing his songs. I will translate for all these people.’
My mind flashed back to my primary school. I was, for the first time, thankful for that ‘old Cooke’, the headmaster there, had driven me by fear of his tawse to learn and sing Burns’ works.
‘I do not know,’ I started to say, but was stopped by an imperious wave of a hand.
‘All my relations in Scotland can recite and sing our national Bard – where do you begin?’
Between twenty and thirty had gathered round our fire, and were told, ‘Andrew from Scotland will entertain.’ I took a step forward, dropped on one knee, scraped around as if I was catching something, picked up a handful of hay and stood up smoothing it in my hand into a small ball and started.

‘Wee, sleekit, courin’ tim’rous beastie,
O, whit a panic’s in thy breastie.’

I stopped, and the girl translated, and so I carried on, one line or two at a time. I missed out a verse here and there, but I finished the last two:

‘But mousie, thou are no’ thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain,
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley.’

The reception shook me. There was clapping and smiling and nodding: a complete understanding, and so I gave t hem ‘To a Daisy’. Next, the girl did some explaining before a cook came in with a large sausage.. I addressed the ‘haggis’, cut it into slices. Many came up, took a slice and went back and sat down facing me – they obviously wished for more. I walked round the front row, stopped beside a fair-haired girl, put out my hand and asked her to come forward. She assented (without knowing what was wanted) and we walked back to my stance. We turned round. I nodded to my interpreter, and began:

‘O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.’

Line for line I said it, and slowly walked her back to where she had sad and then, in a very quite voice I began to sing.

‘And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.’

Well, the applause was terrific. If this is what they want, I’ll be here all night, I thought. I’d better give them something else, and so I began again with the translation continuing until the last verse.

Is there for honest poverty
‘For a’ that, an a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er,
Shall brithers be for a’ that.’

Everybody stood up, shaking hands. Given a signal, they all sat down.
‘I will sing a song of Robert Burns,’ announced the second-in-command whose relatives had lived on the banks of Loch Ness, and who until this point had been translating the poems.
A trained voice sang out ‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon’ in a language they all understood. On the second verse I joined in quietly, ‘la, la, la’ to the end, then she added, ‘We will sing it as Burns wrote it.’

‘Ye banks and braes. . .’

I sang the words in a low contralto, as I had heard it sung in the Hall at home. On the second verse, she took my hand and we wandered dreamily across the front. I smelled the briar and heard the birds singing. She pulled a rose and I pretended to put it into her hair and we finished the song in unison. There was a second or two of complete silence before everyone jumped up, clapping and chattering, touching each other, moving around us and trying to shake our hands. The numbers had double and they were all milling around and laughing with pleasure. I was completely shattered. Here was I, shut in which a group of people who had travelled hundreds of miles in tanks fitted with guns, with the sole intention of wreaking vengeance on a country that had dared to destroy them; and a freezing wind blowing snow from the Baltic ocean bringing everything to a standstill and kindly covering the dead and dying women and children lying in groups along the roadsides. And a sad little song with a Scottish air and words by Robert Burns, written two hundred years before, had changed the world around us!
I was uplifted and a bit dazed, and yes, I was proud – a sort of humble pride, pleased and delighted – and then two hands on my shoulders turned me round and my hands were taken in hers and an emotional voice spoke, ‘Tonight I am your Jean: tonight you are my Robert.’

Andrew Winton died just a few years after his book was published. Thanks are due to Cualann Press and Mr. Winton’s family for permission to publish this extract.

Clarence.

Burns’ Night on the Oder

‘Wee, sleekit, courin’ tim’rous beastie,
O, whit a panic’s in thy breastie.’

I stopped, and the girl translated, and so I carried on, one line or two at a time. I missed out a verse here and there, but I finished the last two:

‘But mousie, thou are no’ thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain,
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley.’

‘O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.’

Line for line I said it, and slowly walked her back to where she had sad and then, in a very quite voice I began to sing.

‘And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.’

Is there for honest poverty
‘For a’ that, an a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er,
Shall brithers be for a’ that.’

‘Ye banks and braes. . .’

I sang the words in a low contralto, as I had heard it sung in the Hall at home. On the second verse, she took my hand and we wandered dreamily across the front. I smelled the briar and heard the birds singing. She pulled a rose and I pretended to put it into her hair and we finished the song in unison. There was a second or two of complete silence before everyone jumped up, clapping and chattering, touching each other, moving around us and trying to shake our hands. The numbers had doubled and they were all milling around and laughing with pleasure. I was completely shattered. Here was I, shut in which a group of people who had travelled hundreds of miles in tanks fitted with guns, with the sole intention of wreaking vengeance on a country that had dared to destroy them; and a freezing wind blowing snow from the Baltic ocean bringing everything to a standstill and kindly covering the dead and dying women and children lying in groups along the roadsides. And a sad little song with a Scottish air and words by Robert Burns, written two hundred years before, had changed the world around us!
I was uplifted and a bit dazed, and yes, I was proud – a sort of humble pride, pleased and delighted – and then two hands on my shoulders turned me round and my hands were taken in hers and an emotional voice spoke, ‘Tonight I am your Jean: tonight you are my Robert.’

Andrew Winton died just a few years after his book was published. Thanks are due to Cualann Press and Mr. Winton’s family for permission to publish this extract.

Clarence.

Burns’ Night on the Oder

‘Wee, sleekit, courin’ tim’rous beastie,
O, whit a panic’s in thy beastie.’

I stopped, and the girl translated, and so I carried on, one line or two at a time. I missed out a verse here ad there, but I finished the last two:

‘But mousie, thou are no’ thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain,
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley.’

The reception shook me. There was clapping and smiling and nodding: a complete understanding, and so I gave t hem ‘To a Daisy’. Next, the girl did some explaining before a cook came in with a large sausage.. I addressed the ‘haggis’, cut it into slices. Many came up, took a slice and went back and sad down facing me – they obviously wished for more. I walked round the front row, stopped beside a fair-haired girl, put out my hand and asked her to come forward. She assented (without knowing what was wanted) and we walked back to my stance. We turned round. I nodded to my interpreter, and began:

‘O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.’

Line for line I said it, and slowly walked her back to where she had sad and then, in a very quite voice I began to sing.

‘And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.’

Is there for honest poverty
‘For a’ that, an a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er,
Shall brithers be for a’ that.’

Everybody stood up, shaking hands. Given a signal, they all sad down.
‘I will sing a song of Robert Burns,’ announced the second-in-command whose relatives had lived on the banks of Loch Ness, and who until this point had been translating the poems.
A trained voice sang out ‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon’ in a language they all understood. On the second verse I joined in quietly, ‘la, la, la’ to the end, then she added, ‘We will sing it as Burns wrote it.’