By Mallory Legg
It is a Saturday in Edinburgh, a bleak sky invites damp air as the trains run slowly down the coast of Scotland. The castle perches lonely above the rest of us, watching, guarding, encouraging me to get a drink. And what the castle commands, I obey.
Off at Haymarket and onto the wind chilled concrete catwalk, up the hill a few blocks and… there it is. Presented with a big arching door nestled in between pillars and sat atop a grand few steps of stairs. We had reached The Palmerston. Enticed in by the smell of fresh pastries, we looked around for a fitting place for myself and my small posse to wedge in, if only just for a drink.
