Psychogeography: Dalry, Edinburgh.

The outline of a splash of Deuchars IPA dictates the shape of a walk from the Caledonian Brewery, the place of it’s production.  

A bottle of beer is tipped from vertical above it’s place of production. Let the Surrealist laws of chance define the constraint of these peregrinations, 200 metres above the once Charmed Circle of Wells, a pool of hard, unadulterated Pentland water. Look up. Caledonian. Lorimer’s. Merman.

Imperial. Deuchars IPA. A smokestack, reddish, pertains to industry, heavy, standing proud as a needle, grey shadow severing transport links below. Swells of foliage tossed with the detritus of a shiny fashioned century. A modern logic. Consume. Dispose. Über advantageous appointed A an other’s problem. Barriers and bars and blockades. Absent access, inadequate ingress. Walker as imposter. Get into the road get into a vehicle, follow the procedure. This is how it’s done now. The walker climbs abandoned roadworks. Crushed golden indications, contorted yellow cones, scattered and derelict. Plastic fluttering from branches too choked to bloom.

Iron and water slice and divide. No short cuts forced to go around. The sublime scents of fermentation clash against the palpable stench of double deep fat fried. Look up. Site of spectacle. Twenty two doughty striking men their women going gratis for the debut deployment. The grey and primer split, a pointless peek to the stands. Pawn shops, phone covers, cash-a-cheque and charity. Stripes of dog mess sullied pavings, sticky pram tracks fade to nothing.  
This is where the 16th grew through their cowardly appellation, The White Feathers of Midlothian flocking to the Colours to die gloriously in a hail of fire by still foreign waters. Each one a smitch, insignificant stakes in the Grand Gamble. How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world.  

A beery T, perspex cracked, fat and glowing. Round the corner double arches of mighty stone, checker board tagged with artless scrawls. Dirty and foul the brick wall nibbled away beneath. Look up. Motherwell iron, monumental, ox blood red. White tiles smeared and splattered black. Never cleaned. Keep them scared. More craft, C-3PO, programmed for propriety and protocol. Again the railway. The walker watches the Virgin nudging silently alongside.

Scaffolds shrouded in strings of web. Unconcerned. Private. Her Majesty’s Revenue. Private. Private. Until your call to answer. Glass twinkles through the Conference centres, insurance brokers, bankers, law firms. Keeping the country afloat, keeping the continent strong.
Finance: from old French - to ransom, an end, settlement. Retribution.  

Look up. A second chimney seen through the warp and weft of electric cabling. North British one time pig farm. Dreg and draff consumed by cattle. By trade, for trade cooperative. Crippled by conflict then interdiction. But still there. Still kicking. Johnny Walker. Famous Grouse. J+B.
Blenders and Bonders seen the trams come and go and come again. The devil inside banging shang-a-lang. One city many Discoveries, pet name Nam for it’s mayhem and murder, now a fountain, gastro family friendly kids dogs come on in.  
The Golden Rule. Do as you would be done by. Governments redundant so no need for war. The walker walks. Water. Iron. Beer. Men. War. The beautiful game.     
 

Above is the YouTube link to the little film I made using the psychogeography prose and some carefully chosen images. Many of the images are mine but some are not mine, but I'll leave things as they are until I get a letter from a lawyer.