You don't come to Edinburgh for the predictable. You come to discover the new, the what-might-be. This year, mine has taken the form, unexpectedly, of what wasn't, and in the shape of a place I never even knew existed: Edinburgh's brand new medical-school-cum-campus, the Royal Infirmary's accident and emergency department.

I hadn't been to Edinburgh for two years, but once again, its magnetic call drew me. Thursday evening I was boarding easyJet and on the Friday morning there I was, grappling with the habitual problem: where to start? Arriving at the festival is not for the faint-hearted. No one knows what the hell is going on, what to make a beeline for, or what to avoid. None too originally, I found myself heading for the Traverse in the company, it turned out, of half my London theatre colleagues (we're a tribal lot: we tend to herd together, and being away from home only exacerbates the tendency, like children let out of school).

Typically, the Traverse programme proved a tester: trauma, grief and obsession in ever darker hues. Still, I patted myself on the back for a job well done. The first challenge was over. My schedule for the seven days was well sewn up. I knew what I was doing.

Next morning, Saturday, bright as a lark, I headed for the old Bank of Scotland vaults, now better known as the Smirnoff Underbelly, to catch Blind Summit, the latest product from the Battersea Arts Centre, London's theatre eco-lab. Another hit in the making, with adult puppetry for the soul: encounters through a glass darkly.

"Ah, but wait," said Mark Down, Blind Summit Theatre's founding spirit. "Come and see us on the Royal Mile - we're doing a 'scratch' gig. Anything could happen." Intrigued, I went outside and waited. In the shadow of St Giles, a red-faced Irish magician was manically working his pitch; beside him, some whey-faced Japanese dancers and drummers were acting out an incomprehensible peasant tale. The Edinburgh crowd looked on politely. I waited. Still no Blind Summit. So, I thought, instead, I'll catch a lunchtime concert being given by one of my relatives, a monstrously self-deprecating and talented viol player. Pooh-like, I sauntered, whistling a happy tune, past the old Scottish Parliament building on the Mound and towards Princes Street - when suddenly the earth rose up to meet me.

I flew into space and, settling back on the pavement, watched as my foot swelled as if suddenly filled with helium. "She's in shock," I heard a comforting North Country voice say. I believed her. I couldn't move. A strange feeling of calm descended. A man's voice said: "You ought to go to hospital. Have you got anybody?" Luckily I did. Peter, my relative's husband, saved the day (despite finding that his £350 bicycle had been stolen from a padlocked shed at just about the same moment).

He drove me to A&E. (We had to find it first; it's so new that not even

the locals can find this Brave New World of a self-contained medical city.) Heroically, he then gave me a piggyback up the 66 steps to his top-floor flat (coincidentally, a stone's throw from Robin Cook's Edinburgh residence, and - strange thought - at just about the time that Cook was making his mountainside departure). From there, for the past six days, I have looked out on the Pentlands, on glorious sunsets of gold and vermilion. And as echoing colours emerge in my foot - now turning an impressive melange of purple, gold and grungy brown - I ponder on the festival that might have been.

Post your comment

Please note: you will need to login or register before you can comment on the website