TURNING off the busy West Granton Road, Madelvic House stands out from the crowd. On a sunny evening, its Victorian red bricks glow warmly. Living close to it is vital to my wellbeing and representative of Granton’s fascinating heritage.

Modern blocks of flats stand on one side of this treasure of a building; on another are cottages dating from the 1930s.

Opposite is a beautiful sycamore tree and the brick and metal casing of United Wire, who have been in business for over 200 years.

Adjacent are the remains of what is believed to be the UK’s first electric car factory, where prototypes were driven on a roof track for testing - around 1900.

Madelvic House is in the midst of this eclectic environment. It celebrates the good company it is in and holds the history of the community it belongs to.

Once at the forefront of the innovation and wealth-building that made Granton so important, Madelvic House is currently in the heart of acres of hasty new housebuilding and a place to which I regularly return.

On Mondays, I stretch, twist and do my ‘downward dogs’ in the Sphinx Room yoga class.

Early on Fridays, I go to sit in meditation there and then share a convivial breakfast.

At weekends, I am inspired by visiting art exhibitions. I love that classes and workshops, meeting rooms, studios and space to show artwork are available to us all so near to home.

In 2023/24, I was the development worker at the Granton Archive Project that occupies the William Peck Room.

More and more people are coming to live close by, or to visit the commercial outfits springing up; The Pitt street food, community hub and venue is just a 15-minute walk away.

Meanwhile, community arts group, Granton:hub, and Forth Children’s Theatre are both tenants of Madelvic House.

I run walking trips around Granton and find myself constantly singing the praises of Madelvic House, for two very simple reasons: its sense of history and the friendliness and enthusiasm of the people who work and volunteer there.

There is pride too: Madelvic House has been awarded ‘red wheel’ status (here) by the charity, the National Transport Trust, and of course there is the elegance and poise of the building’s architecture: the classical, white balustraded parapet, the broken pediment and pilastered front entrance.

What excites me the most is the façade’s decoration, built by William Peck in 1898.

Above the door is a wheel, the ‘fifth wheel’, which was a part of the electric car manufactured by the Madelvic Motor Carriage Co.

Perched on top of that is a sphinx (a goddess-lion-eagle hybrid) but the reason it is there is a riddle which, for long enough, I was not able to solve. Until now.

Peck - who held the office of city astronomer - was an Egyptophile. He was a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and attended the Amen-Ra temple in Edinburgh, named after the temple of the same name in Luxor in southern Egypt, famous for its Avenue of Sphinxes.

It is likely that he chose a sphinx for Madelvic House as a reference to this, to guard the mysteries inside and act as a warning to those who entered that they should conceal all knowledge learned within.

It makes sense that an innovative business might choose such a symbol, and it brings the whole story alive.

There is so much more to the architectural gem that is Madelvic House. The sadness is that it is mostly overlooked, perhaps because Edinburgh is so rich in beautiful buildings.

BuildEdinburgh readers have the chance to enjoy the building, as I do, by signing up to visit it for ‘Doors Open Day’, on the 26th of next month, here.

Tamsin Grainger has been a Zen Shiatsu practitioner since 1991, and, more recently, a practising artist whose visual, written and textile-based work arises directly from her walking practice. Her next exhibition will be at Madelvic House, on October 23-25.

Also on September 26, Tamsin is leading ‘Knots’, a community walk down to Granton harbour and back, to celebrate the wire mesh and fishing industries. Details here.

Image details: copyright Tamsin Grainger

MY favourite building in Edinburgh is one many people pass without quite seeing: the Chapel of St Albert the Great, tucked quietly behind the Georgian terraces of George Square, beside Middle Meadow Walk.

There are grander buildings in the city, older buildings, more elaborate buildings and buildings that command the skyline. But this modest chapel is the one that stays with me.

Part of that affection is deeply personal. Part of it is architectural. Together, they make this one of the city’s most remarkable modern buildings.

When I first arrived at the University of Edinburgh in the late 1980s to study for my MSc, the chapel that exists today had not yet been built. The Catholic Chaplaincy occupied rooms within the Georgian houses on George Square. It was a much humbler setting, but one that became an important part of my university life.

Like many students arriving in Edinburgh from elsewhere in Scotland, university could sometimes feel anonymous. Lectures, libraries and laboratories filled the days, but St Albert’s offered something different: a place where people knew your name, friendships formed easily, and conversations ranged far beyond academic life.

Those memories remain among the happiest of my time as a student.

Returning years later to discover the new chapel was therefore a moment of genuine delight.

Rather than reproducing a traditional church, the architects created something unmistakably contemporary while remaining profoundly respectful of the building’s purpose.

Completed in 2012 and designed by architects, Simpson & Brown, the chapel has deservedly received wide architectural recognition. It demonstrates that modern ecclesiastical architecture can be both innovative and deeply rooted in tradition.

What impresses me most is not simply the quality of the architecture, but the way it creates atmosphere.

From Middle Meadow Walk, the chapel reveals itself only gradually.

It sits quietly within its garden, neither competing with the 18th-century townhouses nor attempting to imitate them. Instead, it finds its own language through restrained materials, careful proportions and thoughtful detailing.

The sandstone walls anchor the building firmly to Edinburgh’s architectural tradition, while the great curved roof introduces warmth and movement.

Four weathered Corten steel columns rise like the trunks of trees, supporting an oak-lined ceiling that appears almost to float overhead. The effect is surprisingly organic, as though the chapel has grown naturally from the garden rather than simply been placed within it.

Inside, the experience becomes even more compelling.

Architecture often succeeds not because of what it contains, but because of what it allows us to feel.

The interior of St Albert’s is calm without being austere. Light enters indirectly, filtered through carefully positioned glazing and reflected across the oak ceiling before gently illuminating the worship space. There is very little distraction. Instead, attention is drawn naturally towards the sanctuary.

It is an object lesson in how daylight can become a building material in its own right.

Perhaps the most beautiful feature is the great glazed wall behind the altar. Rather than presenting stained glass or elaborate decoration, it opens directly onto the garden beyond.

Throughout the year, the changing seasons become part of the chapel’s interior life.

Spring blossom, summer greenery, autumn colour and winter light each find their way into worship. Nature becomes part of the liturgy without a single spoken word.

For someone interested in architecture and landscape, this dialogue between inside and outside feels entirely appropriate.

Edinburgh’s best buildings have always understood their setting. This chapel continues that tradition in a thoroughly modern way.

Yet it is more than simply well-sited. Through its generous glazing and its relationship with the surrounding gardens and pathways, it remains anchored in the everyday life of the university.

Students crossing Middle Meadow Walk, changing seasons, birdsong and weather all become part of the experience of the building.

Rather than turning away from the world, the chapel gently embraces it, reminding us that faith is lived not apart from daily life but within it.

There is another reason why I value the building.

University chaplaincies occupy an unusual place within the life of a city. They are neither wholly academic nor wholly ecclesiastical. They provide spaces where students from many backgrounds encounter questions of purpose, ethics, friendship and belonging alongside their formal studies.

That was certainly my experience. Looking back nearly 40 years, I remember not only the liturgies but the people: fellow students, chaplains and volunteers whose kindness created a genuine sense of belonging.

The chaplaincy was woven naturally into the rhythm of university life. One could drop in after lectures, meet friends over coffee, attend Mass, or simply find a quiet place to gather one’s thoughts before returning to the demands of study.

The new chapel reflects that same openness. It is unmistakably Catholic in its liturgical purpose, yet its architecture feels generous rather than exclusive.

It invites stillness without isolation. Even when empty, it possesses a quiet hospitality that welcomes visitors to pause for a few moments before returning to the movement and activity of George Square beyond its walls.

As someone who now spends much of his professional life thinking about Edinburgh’s built and natural environment, I often argue that successful buildings and their surroundings contribute something beyond their immediate function. They enrich the public realm. They make places memorable. They help shape how people experience a city.

The Chapel of St Albert the Great does all three.

It also reminds me that architecture is ultimately about people. Buildings become meaningful because they gather memories as well as occupants.

Every visit reconnects me with friendships formed nearly 40 years ago, with the excitement of arriving in Edinburgh as a young post-graduate student, and with the sense that the city was opening itself, one discovery at a time.

The old chaplaincy gave me many of those memories. The new chapel gives them a beautiful architectural home.

In a city celebrated for castles, monuments and Georgian crescents, my favourite building is a modest chapel hidden in a garden: quiet, generous and easily missed.

Perhaps that is exactly as it should be.

James Garry is assistant director of The Cockburn Association

Image details: copyright Mike Wilson

IT must be Norman. This was the main design stipulation of the 1872 competition for a new church on sloping ground in Low Broughton.

The Catholic Apostolic Church already had a modest presence on Broughton Street, but its leaders wanted something larger and more impressive. They sought a home which would let the congregation grow and give full expression to the elaborate rituals of their worship.

Its spaces should evoke piety and grandeur, awe and exultation but in an architectural style free of perceived ‘papish’ excess.

Robert Rowand Anderson’s winning response was an exercise in massive restraint, which still cheers and solemnises at the corner of East London Street and Mansfield Place.

Measuring 200 ft x 45 ft, its roof summiting at 77 ft, the walls 4 ft 6 in thick, this was an imposing statement of faith at the New Town’s edge. It could accommodate 700, although it’s doubtful whether regular attendance exceeded 150.

The Church was in part a charismatic response to certainties overturned by the French Revolution.

It was formally constituted in London in 1835 by founders who foresaw an imminent Apocalypse and Second Coming.

Their buildings and liturgy were designed to honour the mysterious but real presence of Christ during Eucharists, and to welcome His arrival when the Millennium dawned.

By tithes and donations, affluent worshippers raised the £17,000 needed for the first phase of building. Anderson began in 1873 with a church officer’s dwelling and vast undercroft on which sat the nave, double chancel and apse.

The narthex (entry porch) and circular baptistry were added for a further £4,000 in 1885. Not including furnishings, it cost around £1.3m in today’s terms.

Anderson’s uninterrupted nave afforded clear views of sacraments at the altar. These set pieces were discharged by a hierarchy of clergy comprising an Angel (bishop), elders, prophets, evangelicals and pastors, each in gorgeous vestments. They numbered around 25 in total, supported by a small army of colourfully robed lay deacons.

It was an order repeated above the soaring chancel arch. Here, Phoebe Traquair’s mural (painted in 1893–95) depicts a Heavenly Church with choirs of angels, cherubim and a multitude of the redeemed giving praise. Their textured golden aureoles, crowns and trumpets made the whole interior ‘scintillate and glow’.

It was, said the poet W.B. Yeats, Traquair’s ‘drama of the soul’.

Each day at 6 am, the first of four services began amid specially-composed music, incense and the flickering light of candles and olive-oil lamps. The ceremony, drawn from select Anglican, Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions, was widely acknowledged as beautiful and moving. Worshippers thrilled to the invisible but literal proximity of Christ. Some gave voice to revelations and prophecies in strange tongues.

It was all both sincere and theatrical, a feast for the mind and senses, a vivid contrast to the buttoned-up Edinburgh of sombre Presbyterianism, coal smoke and rain, of mirthless nine-hour sermons and ‘Cabbage Feasts’ in the Glasite Meeting House.

However, since only the institution’s original 12 apostles could ordain new clergy, as they died so the Church itself withered until, in 1958, it disbanded here and in 1971 ceased altogether.

Baptists occupied the narthex for some 20 years, but the rest of Anderson’s structure warehoused bricks until, by hook and by crook, the Mansfield Traquair Trust acquired it in 1998 and set about extensive repair and restoration.

The glorious ground floor can now be hired for events and weddings. But, crucially, the Trust provided for the building’s future by converting the labyrinthine undercroft into open-plan office space – a mezzanine substructure which can be removed if necessary, later.

The Scottish Council for Voluntary Organisations leased this area until last year, but so far no new occupant has been found.

Once again, then, Anderson’s tour-de-force stands underused, patiently anticipating an important arrival.

On clear evenings, its western face resembles some armoured Cyclops glaring at the setting sun. On sodden winter days, its northern elevation darkens in precipitous gloom. I have stood at its southern flank by moonlight, when the church becomes a couchant lion: silent, impassive, waiting for that moment when the spirit stirs and bids it rise.

Alan McIntosh is an author, academic editor and contributing editor of the local newsletter, The Broughton Spurtle.

There are open days at the Mansfield Traquair Centre this summer on June 14, July 12 and August 11–27. Check here for times.

Image details: copyright Alan McIntosh, text copyright: Alan McIntosh

A BUNCH of us from school in Glasgow used to take the train through to Edinburgh to watch rugby internationals at Murrayfield.

The routine was always the same. We’d get off the train at Haymarket and walk to the stadium. Game over, we’d proceed to Princes Street and up the Mound, to Deacon Brodie’s Tavern.

The pies were good and so was the beer. Then down the hill to Waverley for the train home.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to have bumped into Robert Louis Stevenson or Deacon Brodie himself on those evenings, such was the intimate atmosphere of mystery and menace in the wynds and closes of the Old Town.

So I was thinking Murrayfield, home of Scottish rugby, as my favourite building - a structure really, back then open to the elements and no seats, except for the spectators in the West Stand.

Wrap-around cover was fitted in the 1990s when an impressively-engineered web of steel created an all-seat venue, albeit with a reduced capacity of 67,000 spectators; previously, more than 100,000 fans could get in.

Deacon Brodie’s is a favourite as well, but its story is well-known.

There are many buildings in Edinburgh associated with booze, such as Dynamic Earth, high-tech in the shell of an old brewery. My current choice is the Port of Leith Distillery, designed by Glasgow architects, ThreeSixty, and opened three years ago.

My nephew, partial to ‘a wee dram’, he confessed, was in town for a few days, so I suggested we do a tour.

Easy to book online, ‘tasting experience’ included.

We took the tram from Princes Street to Leith and got off at Ocean Terminal.

Expecting something picturesque, my nephew took one look and gasped, “Is this it?”

We walked on to the distillery. It cannot be described as picturesque but it’s a more refined piece of architecture than Ocean Terminal, the shopping mall built about 2000 on the site of the Henry Robb shipyard.

The distillery is a steel-framed, nine-storey structure that expresses perfectly the modernist dictum, ‘form follows function’.

Basically, it’s a box, but what a box! It was constructed on an almost impossible site, constrained by water and Ocean Terminal. The only way to go was up. It wasn’t conceived to be so, but it evolved to be Scotland’s first vertical distillery and is the tallest distillery in the world.

The tour takes you through the partly gravity-fed production process - grain milling and mashing at the top, descending through fermentation to the hand-crafted copper stills at the bottom.

Every aspect is visible and spotlessly clean. Environmentally-focussed too.

As the guide explained to our group, the barley is locally-sourced and malted, cutting food miles and the carbon footprint. The building includes events spaces, offices, a shop and, of course, a bar.

Whisky is not new in Leith, where bonded warehouses have traditionally stored the ‘water of life’ for maturation, bulk sale and export.

Leith was Scotland’s premier port until Glasgow eclipsed it in the 19th century, but it remains the nation’s largest enclosed deep-water harbour, used by ships that service North Sea oil and gas fields and offshore wind farms.

There is a cruise ship terminal and the Royal Yacht Britannia, now a tourist attraction. Forth Ports secured the right to display the historic ship after it was decommissioned, in 1997.

In the distillery bar on the eighth floor, you can have a wee dram and a bite to eat.

Outside, the marine traffic, the port’s cranes and Britannia look like toys. “Great view,” we agreed and raised our glasses.

“Cheers!”

Robin Ward is an Edinburgh-based architecture critic, writer, graphic designer and a graduate of Glasgow School of Art. The Port of Leith Distillery is featured in his book, The Pocket Guide to Edinburgh’s Best Buildings, published by Birlinn in 2025.

Text copyright: Robin Ward; image copyright: Mike Wilson

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TUCKED quietly behind the grand sweep of St Andrew Square and just around the corner from the bustle of Princes Street stands one of my favourite buildings in Edinburgh, New Register House.

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