At all costs bring a good wine with you when you come; here there is only beer, which is tolerable, and gin, which is not. [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe Froidevaux, 18 January 1737] I passed the bridge on my way up to the George where I was to meet Hugh and Balfour. There was still a watchman on guard outside the shop; he was reconciling his duty and his inclinations, by refusing to let sightseers into the house but charging them for a look through an unshuttered window. I walked up the Side, passed St Nicholas’s church and cut off into the Clothmarket, from which an alley led to the George Inn. Hugh and Balfour were waiting for me in the inn yard. ‘I told you the snow would go!’ Hugh said triumphantly. ‘That’ll be it for the winter.’ ‘I hope so,’ Balfour said. He looked cold and subdued. ‘Come on then!’ Hugh said. ‘Got to make sure we’re finished before the inquest.’ He grinned at me. ‘Had a message this morning to say I wouldn’t be needed.’ He nudged me in the ribs.
