Edinburgh is a stunner. A castle on a hill, cobbled streets, and a vibe that makes you want to write a novel. Then August hits, and the Fringe Festival arrives. Suddenly, a standard flat in a stairwell costs the same as a penthouse in Barcelona.
“It’s just for the festival,” you say, as you rent out your cupboard to a struggling comedian for £2,000 a week. Meanwhile, you sleep on a friend’s floor and pray your landlord doesn’t notice.
Year-round, though, the housing market is a beast. I once saw a one-bedroom flat listed with “no central heating, but close to Arthur’s Seat.” Translation: “Freeze your bits off, but you can climb a hill for warmth.”
