The other Saturday I came out of an evening show at the Assembly Rooms on the Mound. It was not long after eight in the evening, the sky was overcast but it was a clear enough night and right in front of me, framed between the buildings of Edinburgh’s New Town, I could see a slice of Fife glowing greenly, so close I could almost touch it.

For a moment I imagined being on that side of the Firth of Forth - somewhere near Burntisland, I guess - away from the crowds and the chaos that is Edinburgh in August. A moment’s longing for something else.

And then I turned and headed off to catch my next show.

For most people in Edinburgh there will come a point in August when it all becomes a bit much. A point when the constant crowds and noise and street jugglers get to you. A point when you get tired of risking your life jumping into the bus lane while navigating a particularly slow-moving clot of people on North Bridge. A point when just getting from A to B, or from Assembly Roxy to Monkey Barrel, feels like a military operation. A point when Fife might well seem the best option.

But here’s a thought experiment. Try to imagine Edinburgh without the Fringe, indeed, without any of the festivals. What would the city be? What would be lost?

Many years ago - probably more like decades now - I remember interviewing the Irish comedian Dylan Moran. He lived in Edinburgh at the time (I don’t know if he still does). When I asked him why, he told me that he just liked a city that went to bed at night. That’s Edinburgh without the Fringe, isn’t it? An early-to-bed place.

The Fringe brings tens of thousands of people to Edinburgh (Image: Gordon Terris)

In August, though, Edinburgh suddenly forgets it even owns pyjamas. For a month both Edinburgh’s Old Town and New Town are late to bed - if they go to bed at all.

The Fringe is now so familiar a thing in Scottish cultural life that there’s a danger we forget how unfamiliar it actually is. Thousands upon thousands of shows, tens of thousands of visitors, millions of tickets sold. If that happened in any other country you’d want to go and experience it. But it’s happening here on our doorstep.

As a result, what can be a douce, sedate city most of the year (Hogmanay apart) feels electric for a few weeks in the summer, so much so that you feel that if you could just plug all that energy into the national grid you’d probably power the city for the rest of the year.

In a way that’s exactly what happens. The Fringe, it is estimated, is worth somewhere in the region of £500 million to the city annually. This year that figure will be presumably boosted by the new tourist levy. Never mind the culture, this is, economically, a big deal.

Does any of this need said, you might ask? I think so. The arts seem to have to justify their existence constantly. But when people ask - and they do - “Does the Fringe mean anything anymore?” I’m always tempted to take them to the Pleasance Courtyard or Bristo Square or onto the Meadows, or even up to the Royal Mile during August and say, “Just look around you. See all these people? They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

The fact is, for a few weeks in August, Edinburgh feels like it’s the centre of the world. A magnet for dancers, actors, comedians and, yes, street jugglers, from five continents, a prime reason........

© Herald Scotland