Quotes About Edinburgh

I lived near Arthur's Seat when I lived in Edinburgh. It was the perfect playground as a child. I always have a wee run up there when I'm back.

I was doing a wee gig at the Edinburgh Fringe, and while I was walking down to the show from the train station, someone stopped and asked if they could get a picture with me. This was about six months before I released my first single as well, so my response was, 'Are you sure?'

You will always worry - a wee lad from Edinburgh going up on stage in Glasgow.

Glasgow is less polite than Edinburgh but that's a good thing - they keep it very real.

The housing stock along the broad Edinburgh Road was a linear map of a century of social housing, from scrubby squares of muddy grass around garden city dreams, to high-rise machines for living. Occasionally they passed a wall of undemolished tenements, the old housing design that had worked in the city for centuries.

I was a chorister at St Mary's Music School, from the ages of 11 to 13, after prep school and before I went to the Durham School. Edinburgh's my favourite city in the whole world. I don't think there's anywhere that comes close to it.

Edinburgh is good craic. A romantic and beautiful city, it's one those places that makes me smile when I think about it - there are other places I would never dare go back to, but Edinburgh is very special.

For comics, Edinburgh makes no financial or medical sense. Get an audience; that's the first task. Once the punters are in, simply make them laugh for an hour, and then sweat on the critics.

Nonetheless, from Edinburgh to Rome, indignant books and speeches and sermons denounced the vicious "Arab" slavers—and with them, by implication, the idea that any part of Africa might be colonized by someone other than Europeans.

Lodging is not only much cheaper in London than in Paris; it is much cheaper than in Edinburgh, of the same degree of goodness; and, what may seem extraordinary, the dearness of house-rent is the cause of the cheapness of lodging.

Everywhere in Edinburgh is uphill. This doesn't seem like it can possibly be true, but it is.

At West Linton, near Edinburgh, Scotland

When I was a boy living in Edinburgh in Scotland, especially in December, when the hours of daylight were few, and it was cold, and often wet, I used to dream of escaping to a tropical magic kingdom.

I love coming to Edinburgh and last time I was here, Claire and I found out we were expecting our daughter Eleanor, so it's a place dear to my heart.

I've spent some time in Edinburgh before. I used to go up there to busk and actually went to the Fringe a few times as a teenager with my cello.

Edinburgh House. He had heard that in its industrial heyday, Corby had had

There's all this stuff that is happening in Edinburgh now, it's a sad attempt to create an Edinburgh society, similar to a London society, a highbrow literature celebrity society.

Irene gasped. Have you taken leave of your senses, Stuart? she hissed. Have you? Stuart closed his eyes. No, he said. Au contraire. It was strong language for the Edinburgh New Town, but he had to say it. Don't au contraire me, said Irene. But it was too late. He had.

Plenty of people were writing novels; in fact, if one did a survey in the street, half of Edinburgh was writing a novel, and this meant that there really weren't enough characters to go round. Unless, of course, one wrote about people who were themselves writing novels. And what would the novels that these fictional characters were writing be about? Well, they would be novels about people writing novels.

And Edinburgh. He was proud of Edinburgh too, and of Scotland; and why not? Why should one not be proud of one's country - for a change?

A nudist? In Edinburgh? Does he realise what parallel we're on?

Edinburgh dogs do not have owners–too prosaic a term–they have comptrollers.)

I'm sure that Pat likes you," said Big Lou. "And perhaps she would like you even more if she knew how you felt about her. Have you ever told her that?" "Of course not," said Matthew. Big Lou should have known better than to ask that question. This was Edinburgh, after all. One did not go about the place declaring oneself like some lovesick Californian.

He looked at the portrait hung on the wall behind him. It was one of the gallery's most popular pictures, Guy Kinder's brooding portrait of the crime writer, Ian Rankin, sitting in the Oxford Bar, the haunt of his fictional Edinburgh detective. Ian Rankin was looking directly at Stuart, making Stuart avert his gaze.