My powers of recall aren’t what they used to be, but I’m fairly certain that at some point in the recent past, I must have used the generous column inches which the editor kindly thrusts my way every now and then to comment on the farce/disaster/recurring nightmare that was Brexit. Now, before you scream “NO! We’ve heard it all before!” and turn the page, hold on; this is not going to be a retrospective look at how bullshitters like Boris Johnson (remember him?) and Nigel Farage lied through their teeth in an attempt to fulfil their tawdry John Bull fantasies about a neo-colonial England ruling the waves and shooting at small boats in the Channel.

No, just recently I was on my way to visit my family who live in Switzerland and as is usual on my travels by aeroplane, I found myself having an early morning beer in a bar at Edinburgh airport. But not just any bar. At seven in the morning, I found myself queuing up in the Sir Walter Scott bar. Yes, that’s right, the Wetherspoons hostelry that caters for travellers heading all over the globe from our fair city. And not for the first time, once I’d grabbed a pint of ice-cold Stella and settled down to watch the goings-on all around me, I found myself thinking about Brexit, its zealous protagonists, its impacts on travel, but more importantly, how probably no one in that packed bar could give a toss about it anymore. The Sir Walter Scott bar is a portal to “life’s too shortsville” and I love it.

You may or may not remember, but Tim Martin, who founded and is currently chairman of Wetherspoons, was a fervently staunch supporter of Brexit. Although in 2021 when his operation started to haemorrhage staff, he did urge the then Government to adopt a visa scheme for workers from the EU to help pubs and restaurants hire more staff. Anyway, enough about that, what about the bustling oasis that never fails to bring a huge smile to my face whenever I’m off abroad?

I don’t know why, but there’s something really special in the air in that bar. Okay, granted, everyone in there is likely to be heading off on holiday and it’d be a fair assumption to say that of course, the atmosphere is bound to be light and expectant of good times to come, but there’s something more than that, something intangible.

Yes, it’s bustling, people are ordering alcoholic drinks galore, and breakfasts ranging from heart attacks on plates, to positively healthy ones which wouldn’t look out of place in an in-flight magazine, are being ferried all over the place by staff who couldn’t be more friendly and energetic, which is all the more impressive as they’ve probably been at it since 04:00 am.

My favourite breakfast memory was when a gang of girls in pink tutus and high heels waltzed in prior to their hen-night trip. After they’d settled into their seats, one of them called out to her friend: “Elaine, what’re you having?” To which Elaine replied in a tone way beyond excitement, “Porridge and prosecco!!” I don’t really do pride, but I swear that I had a tear in my eye at the sheer Scottishness and joyful abandon of Elaine’s reply. And I wasn’t the only one.

For some reason, people just seem to forget themselves and leave any hint of self-consciousness at the door. On my recent trip, a group of three young men sat down at the table next to me and ordered three pints of lager and full Scottish breakfasts.

They then proceeded to discuss what they were hoping to get from their imminent trip to Amsterdam. Without going into too much detail (which they did), this included lots of drugs, lots of dancing, lots of sex (with whoever was willing to oblige them), and the avoidance of anything which would necessitate a return trip to the GP.

Breakfasts duly arrived and the young lad in the green velour tracksuit sitting next to me sat back, breathed out and declared “Ah’ve no had a full breakfast fir ages.” To which his friend opposite responded with gusto “Aye, cos yir always stuffing something else into yir face first thing in the morning!” Cue guffaws of laughter not only from the three of them, but me, and about four other tables who couldn’t help being party to the conversation.

And none of us are immune to this peculiar disrobing of our inherent uptightness. Ordering my third pint from the bar, the young guy serving me said “Ah, I do like to see people having an early morning drink when they’re travelling.” To which I replied, “Well, I think if you’re going to be moving, you should also be grooving.”

Instinctively, I would always cringe at making such a remark. Now, it might have been the alcohol, but I prefer to think it was that intangible something in the very rarified air of the Sir Walter Scott bar that made it seem not only perfectly normal, but somehow expected.■