Bespectacled opera buffs attended the real Festival, and locals muttered darkly at map-studying tourists who don’t understand the complex relationship between South Bridge and the Cowgate. Like every resonant cliché, of course, there is a kernel of truth. There really was a lot of tourists in Edinburgh this year – maybe the tram makes it seem so in Leith - and the pavements are still pretty narrow. So in August, this glutton likes to hot-foot it out of town.

First stop, just off the bypass at Fairmilehead, the Secret Herb Garden nestles in the gentle swoop of the Pentland foothills. In summer, this part of town seems warmer, although the winter snow lies stubbornly when the weather is cold. The café here serves excellent breakfasts, lunches and light meals. Soups, salads and quiches include produce grown on site – effort always to be rewarded – and remember to leave room for cake. The charm is the setting. The tables are dotted through three giant glasshouses, each overflowing with vines, figs, grapes, and other exotic fruits of which we know little here in Leith. It is one of my favourite places to eat south of Princess Street, but frankly that’s not saying much and I am yet to go to Mara’s Picklery in Marchmont; I hear tremendous things.

And so back in the car, we are forced to choose: M8 or M9. We take the road less travelled towards Falkirk, and pull in at the Champany Inn outside Linlithgow. This is where the 1980s steakhouse vibe has gone to die but, reader, I can report that the patient is showing no signs of decline. Opened by the late South African cook Clive Davidson and his wife over 40 years ago, the same things seem to be going on for ever. The preposterous lobster bar didn’t survive a recent financial crash, but the prawn cocktail clings on, probably unaltered since the doors opened. The Champany Inn is all about the steaks. I’ve been on and off for decades. The quality is consistent and the quantity of meat daunting. Many steaks are cooked on charcoal grills. I remember, perhaps in the last century, a frilly-aproned waitress offering me a choice of fifteen mustards from identical silver bowls. A faded, framed AA Gill review (it was brutal) is on the wall. Everything about the place screams Gordon Gecko excess. And, however unlikely, it retains a curious, brash charm that you can’t find anywhere else.

And so we are back in the car, zooming over the Queensferry Crossing and heading to Fife. I hear a muttering of bewilderment in the readership as this reviewer announces they are heading to the Kingdom. But there is a lot happening over there, especially on the coast. We have a triumphant pub meal at The Ship Inn in Elie, that little part of Fife that is forever Chelsea. A cricket match on the beach is an unlikely sight in a Scottish local authority famed for having, until recently, the last elected communist councillor in Britain. The struggle takes many forms, and nothing is too good for the workers.

But cricket on the beach is what Elie is known for, and we are accidentally there for the local derby, with the home team lining up against the Earlsferry first eleven. Polo tops and pashminas floated in and out of the sand-strewn bar, ordering local beers, cheering on the innings. When the time came, we were whisked upstairs to a fabulous beach-side table with floor-to-ceiling windows, ready to watch the final over. The menu here is ambitious, and well beyond gastropub levels, but the fish and chips hit the spot. As they were bowled out on the beach, we bowled over inside.

One fast bowl northwards, St Monan’s Smokehouse has put that east neuk village firmly on the foodie map. Hot smoked seabass is the signature dish here, served as part of an excellent fish-led menu. The best part: eating on the pier and watching boats glide in. Never mind the cricket, these are working ports that sustain an in-shore fishery community.

Once a month, the Bowhouse Market gathers and pays homage to gluttony. This is a magnet for foodies: producers, sellers, buyers, eaters. It is honestly one the best things about living in Scotland. Some travel from far and wide; others have their production there week-round. The on-site butchery is particularly impressive. In season, the best soft fruit in Europe, grown a stone’s throw away, is piled high. “Bowhouse replaces the missing link in our local food chain,” their slogan goes. It is sadly true that fewer and fewer people have a strong link to food production. We have truly lost something. But judging by the thronging car park and bustling market sheds, there is a market for honest food.

Back in the car toward Leith, I get thinking. I spend a lot of time in Leith; even more so, the more wonderful our diverse community becomes. There are more reasons to eat local, and increasingly fewer reasons to trek into other parts of Edinburgh. Heck, you can even buy Iain Mellis cheese at Gull’s Grocery on Ferry Road. I resolve not to become too smug about our area, however. The wonderful food we can get in restaurants here relies on farmers and producers across the Lothians, Fife, and much further afield.

“Wha’s like us,” is never going to be a motto for Leithers. As the gentrification of Leith powers on with extraordinary abandon, I reflect that we are more connected than we think. The magic of Leith is not that it stays the same, but that it draws on and celebrates different perspectives, people, and cultures.

And there was me thinking I was writing a food column.