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Lucy Orbell is a writer who's recently moved to Berlin. From her summer travels she sent us this postcard from Edinburgh at the height of the slightly mad, festival season.

Danke schon!

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Dear Reader,

The weather here has been much like a Wellington winter, but less windy. In three days I’ve managed to take in art and theatrics. It’s everywhere. The Royal Mile is a mess of people and performers and pieces of paper. The pieces of paper are promotional, with the dates and times and short reviews of shows printed across them. Performers have refined the art of offering these fliers to the public, “Would you like a piece of useless yellow paper to discard later?”.

Exhibit B is my first stop. South African Brett Bailey’s arresting offering to the Fringe. We are made to line up outside before entering the exhibition cum performance, single-file. The architecture inside is grand and old and the themes of colonialism and persecution are explored in a vital way, offering up a sharp and affecting experience in this beautiful and antiquated space.

The rain keeps coming and I have to buy a whole new winter wardrobe to survive the streets.

The next night I run to the castle to see the Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo, I am late, and think wisely of asking for directions from a man in a kilt. Sure enough I find my way and am shown to the very top of the scaffolding, a reserved section for media to perch on the hard metal flooring whilst taking in the most dramatic and privileged view of Edinburgh – worth the chilling wind and discomfort. I make friends with two other journalists, we devise an inadequate plan to get ourselves admitted into the VIP area and end up discussing the merits, or lack of merit, of Exhibit B – I hear oppositional views from these two South Africans. The Tattoo itself is a spectacle of light and sound and dance overlaid with Disney-like narration. I’m pleased I’ve been, but won’t be attending again.

Later I see the New Zealand Music Showcase and discover Mark Vanilau, we coin him the Jeff Buckley of the Pacific.

In the morning Duck, Death and Tulip starts my day. Soft, languid, and full of delightful squaks that the children in attendance love; the set is simple, and emulates the beautiful design and illustration of the book from which it originates.  The lighting works wonders, and by the end of the show I am sure the audience is that much fonder of death – our life’s companion.

Then to the Scottish National Gallery to escape the rain, where I am a bit saddened to find all the Scottish artwork neglected and somewhat ghettoized in the nether regions of the building.  It’s a short visit.

I find my way to the City Art Centre, where Where do I end and you begin is on. It’s a cluster of works from Commonwealth countries, and with that framework in operation I think the title is very fitting. Yvonne Todd’s humorous work, Ethical Minorities appeals, as do Shannon Te Ao’s playful video works and Steve Carr’s strangely mesmerizing, Burn Out. Kushanna Bush’s work feels less vulnerable, and bolder in its choice of subject matter than earlier showings of her work. I rather like South African Mary Sibande’s, The Allegory of Growth, a purple explosion of something untoward.

Later that night I have the good fortune to see Ganesh Versus the Third Reich – astonishing theatre, moving, riotously funny and so clever. From Australian company Back to Back Theatre, an ensemble of performers “perceived to have a disability” offer the packed house a complex and delicately woven, imaginative plot. See it if it comes to a theatre near you.

Before catching my plane the next day I have an almost inedible “Scottish breakfast”, and catch the one man Dylan Thomas show. In a claustrophobic space, with a full house, it’s a great biography of the person, if not the work. I could have done with a tad more from Under Milk Wood, he gives us just a beautiful splash.

Final stop the Scottish Poetry Library. Have been desperate to visit this space dedicated solely to verse for years. It doesn’t underwhelm. I arrive to a lively poetry reading taking place on the steps outside; the discussion and appreciation is candid and generous and I imagine how this might be fostered in New Zealand’s poetry scene?

I leave for Dublin that night, pleased to have seen and met all that I have.