The Last Drop

When I was in Scotland in 1999 for work, I was staying in the town of Livingston. About an hour away was the town of Edinburgh, which has a tremendous and historic castle at its center and has beautiful, aged buildings and streets surrounding it.

After work one evening I joined a couple of coworkers to visit Edinburgh (pronounced Ed-in-borough). While there I was determined to experience life in a pub. As we walked the streets we eventually found ourselves in a place called The Grass Market where there was a pub called The Last Drop. The logo for the pub included a hangman's noose. After about an hour at the pub drinking a pint of local ale, I went up the old bar in the back of the small room and chatted with the burly bartender.

"I'm an American," I said, "and, when it comes to business, we're all about marketing. So, I'm wondering why your logo is a noose? I can't imagine that's an easy sell."

The bartender pointed past me, through the window, out to a large section of raised cement about fifteen yards from the pub entrance.

"You see that?" he said in his naturally thick Scottish accent.

"Yes," I replied.

"That's where they used to hang criminals. Before they were hung, they were brought in here for a drink. So, they got their last drop (referring to the ale) before they took their last drop (referring to being hung)," he chuckled.

"Really?" I said, intrigued. "How old is this place?"

"The pub's been here for over four hundred years," the bartender replied as he took my empty pint.

"Four hundred years?" I exclaimed. "That's older than my country!" I sat quietly and tried to comprehend the fact that I was sitting in a bar almost twice as old as my country. As my mind muscled it's way through the effects of the ale and tried to fathom the age of the pub, I noticed on the bar itself a small trough running from one end of the bar to the other, sloping down, wrapping around the end of the bar and continuing into an adjoining room.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Well," the bartender said as he handed me another pint, "back when no women were allowed in pubs the men would get so pissed drunk that when they had to take a piss, they didn't want to or couldn't stand up. So they would just unzip and piss right into the trough."

I laughed as I followed the now unused trough around the bar and into the adjoining room, which was now a bathroom, appropriately enough.

It was just one of the events on that trip, relaxing with friends at The Last Drop, which made the trip across the pond worthwhile.