Leith is a historic port area in the north of Edinburgh, located at the mouth of the Water of Leith on the southern coast of the Firth of Forth. Leith’s population is about 23,500, and it is a vibrant, bustling area, known for its eateries, creativity, and cultural diversity.
I’ve lived in many suburbs in Edinburgh in my time — from my sunny student days in Marchmont, where I lived in a large peach-coloured hall that was formerly Gillespie’s School for Girls, to a rather dingy flat in Tollcross, to a lovely bright bedroom in Dalry, overlooking Haymarket train station. But Leith is by far and away my favourite part of Edinburgh. There’s just something about it, a certain je ne sais quoi that can’t exactly be quantified or articulated.
Although Leith is commonly recognised as Edinburgh’s port district, it didn’t officially join the city until 1920, much to the consternation of many Leithers. From 1833 to 1920, Leith operated as an independent burgh. Prior to that period, Edinburgh’s town council exerted control over Leith through its feudal superiority. Leith’s history is peppered with instances of its residents striving to resist this external control.
Leith has also been a rather progressive place at times. Free education for all boys kicked off in 1555, funded by local trade guilds. Girls had to wait until 1820, but it was still a pioneering move, pre-dating the 1876 law mandating female education. A free hospital service, funded by local taxes with beds sponsored by shops, started in 1777. In 1886, Leith Hospital was the first hospital in Scotland to admit female medical students to its wards for clinical training. Leith lit up its streets with electricity in 1890 and ran electric trams from 1905, second only to Blackpool in the United Kingdom. Scotland’s first public sewer, constructed in Bernard Street in 1780, added a touch of modern sanitation, emptying into the Water of Leith.
And there are many other fascinating pockets of history around Leith. The placid grass of Leith Links, a pleasant public park, covers mass graves of plague victims. In 2017, contractors building a new playground for local school children uncovered the remains of 79 bodies, all of whom were interred in Rosebank Cemetery in 2018 and marked with a memorial plaque.
Leith Sands, meanwhile, served as an execution site for pirates. Many pirates saw Leith’s port as an ideal place to settle after amassing sufficient wealth, fashioning themselves as a gentleman before heading to the blessed anonymity of London. Captured pirates were hanged over the water at Leith Sands, with their bodies left as a grisly deterrence to others.
One of my favourite pieces of Leith lore is the Boundary Bar, a lovely wee pub uniquely positioned on the dividing line between Leith and Edinburgh. It’s a pub I often frequent with my friends — it has an excellent collection of board games and many delicious German and Belgian beers. It also has a charming history. For many years, Leith had more lenient licensing laws than Edinburgh. Consequently, at 10 o’clock each night, when Edinburgh’s last call came, patrons would simply shuffle down to the Leith side of the bar to enjoy an extra half hour of service. Slainte!
Leith has the same capricious, funny, strange energy that Dunedin’s student quarter has, albeit without the students. It feels like its own place, despite having been swallowed up by the wider city. Only yesterday I was walking down Leith Walk, having just spent half an hour in a bookshop, trying to assuage my disappointment at being turned down for a job I had recently interviewed for. I had my noise-cancelling headphones on, a bag of books in each hand, and a face like thunder. Eventually I realised that a man was strolling beside me, talking to me and trying to get my attention. He was clutching a bottle of spirits and looked rather the worse for wear.
I wasn’t in the mood for cat-calling or any other unsolicited comments on my body, and steeled myself for the inevitable slight. But the man looked at my cowboy boots with glee and started singing These Boots Are Made for Walkin, jiggling his hips and tapping his toes with an energy to rival Nancy Sinatra. I was charmed and surprised in equal measures, and despite myself, I found myself feeling a little happier and at ease with the world.
Leith is not without its issues, however. The shutdown of the Henry Robb shipyards in 1984 left many residents of Leith facing significant challenges. The resulting unemployment led to issues with social integration and a rise in drug-related problems. Despite new investments, economic inequality remains, with pockets of poverty alongside affluent areas.
I love Leith. I love the Polish cafe just around the corner from my house. I love sitting in the watery sunshine and enjoying a pint in Teuchters beer garden. I love the sporadic patches of wildflowers, the Citadel Youth Centre, the "little free library" on Leith Walk, the pungent 24-hour bakery, and the drunken students and night-shift workers that frequent it. I love the messy, manic flea markets at Out of the Blue Drill Hall, and the fact that every few weeks, some inebriated idiot tries to go swimming or paddle-boarding in the Water of Leith. I even love the misspelt graffiti (shout-out to the "Bagdad Boner Boys"), the rowdy Hibs supporters, and the constant "ding" of the trams.
Leith has been surprisingly resistant to gentrification so far, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time before rent skyrockets and luxury flats replace heritage buildings and small businesses, pushing out the locals and sanitising the area of its grime and charm. But Leith has seen much chaos in its time, alongside occupations by Scottish, English, and French forces. Leith’s motto is "Persevere" and persevere it will.
• Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
