The Watch Maker

Last Wednesday I was still feeling the grip of my cold, so I thought I’d play hooky from the tiling school and remain in bed at my B&B. But by 10 am I was so bored, I packed up my laundry and went up Clerk Street to hand in my dusty jeans for cleaning. The Internet store was just across the street, so I popped in there to post my last blog. Afterward, there was a Starbucks just around the corner, so I thought, “Well, I’ve gotten this far, why not stop in and order myself a Café Americano.”

Well, that was all I needed. Fortified by a gigantic steaming cup of coffee, I ventured deeper into the Old City. Tiling be damned. 

Edinburgh, to those who have never been, sits on some pretty interesting topography. Its old town was built on a hill, with some odd little undulations that appear out of nowhere. As you head north on Nicholson Street, you are under the impression that you are travelling on steadily rising, but more or less even ground. That assumption is false. At one point, if you look to your left or right, you will find that a dark little street, called Cowsgate, passes underneath.

Drawn to dark spaces by nature, I took a twisting alley down below. I then looked up from whence I came to see Nicholson Street suspended high overhead from a dripping stone archway. Cowsgate, so named for the beasts which once travelled here on their way to the slaughterhouse, was in deep shade. Seemingly half abandoned, the grimy stone buildings that stood to either side had gone mossy and soot stained with the passage of time.  Few people were in sight.

Cowsgate

Even though it was mid day, I felt uneasy here, so I turned left and headed downhill towards the crags of Arthur’s Seat. As I went, the Victorian gorge that was Cowsgate widened and the sun returned. I crossed an intersection and continued down Holyrood Road, when I noticed a Watchmaker’s sign on a dusty storefront window. Within days of my arrival in Scotland, my watchstrap had broken, so I figured this was an ideal opportunity to get a new one.

I opened the shop door to the sound of an old-fashioned bell, and was immediately transported back in time. The front room was alive with the ticking of dozens of mantle clocks, the type they made by the millions back in the 1920s and 30s. There was all sorts of bits and bobs lying about, none which seemed of recent manufacture. Oak display cases displaying various bric-a-brac flanked each side of the room. The flocked wallpaper was shabby, and I don’t mean in a chic way. They looked as though they’d been installed when Harold MacMillan was Prime Minister. The room smelled of recently-eaten lunch.

Behind a cluttered bench sat a vigorous looking man in his late 60’s. He’d been fiddling with the works of a porcelain-faced chronometer that must have been well over 100 years old.

“How can I help you?” he asked, jumping up from his bench.

I showed him my grandfather’s gold wristwatch and he turned it over in his hand.

“Lovely piece,” he said. “Nice ornamentation on the lugs. They made them well in those days.”

I explained my situation and immediately he seized upon a few watch straps in a display case.

“This one’s handsome,” he said, producing a rather dull brown item. “And it’s only ten pounds.”

I politely declined and pointed to another strap next to it.

“No. That one’s too wide. Won’t fit your watch. Now how about this one?”

He went to the window and retrieved a red strap.

“This one is nice. Oxblood. Its only 14 pounds.”

“It looks sort of pink’” I replied.

“True enough. It’s been sitting out in the sun too long. I’ll have to discount it.”

I then went over to the other side of the room and pointed to another watch strap.

“How about this one?”

He looked at it. “Och. That’s too expensive. Its 16 pounds. Not worth it.”

“Well,” I said. “I rather like it. I think that’s the one I want.”

He nodded and agreed it was a fine choice. He then went back to his bench and consulted a sheet of paper tacked to a wall.

“Oh, I see they’ve raised the price on this one. It’s now 18 pounds 50 pence. It’s a terrruble price to pay.”

“I’ll take it,” I repeated, through gritted teeth.

“Okay, that’s fine. It’s a handsome strap.”

He studied the watch again. I remarked how the glass dome over the watch face was now covered with little cracks.

“Let me replace it,” he offered. “Since you are such a good customer, I’ll do it for free.”

He then withdrew a thin, grimy carton from a wall and started to riffle through a series of little paper envelopes. Eventually he settled on one and, using a bizarre tool I can’t even begin to describe, he removed the old watch face off with a twist of his wrist. He then gave the exposed gold bezel a tender wipe with his rag before jamming the new cover back on.

“Nivada, Aquamatica,” he murmured, reading the little lettering on the watch face, and pronouncing each syllable with pleasure.

“How old is it, do you think?” I asked.

“Could be the 1950s,” he replied. But he estimated the age of the piece at somewhere between 1963 and 1966.

I did not doubt him.