Inside a Hidden Antique Shop in Edinburgh with Two Floors of Oddities

Courtyard Antiques isn’t the kind of shop you just stumble into.

It’s tucked away down a narrow lane, easy to miss unless you already know it’s there.

Some people have lived in the area for 20 years without ever noticing it. But those who do find their way inside step into a space where time moves at its own pace.

For 27 years, Lewis Rosa has been running this place on his own terms.

He’s bought things he loved, sold things he shouldn’t have, wandered through the secret tunnels beneath the castle, and shared countless cups of tea with famous people.

Lewis insists there’s nothing particularly interesting about the shop. He shouldn’t be trusted on that.

Behind the Scenes

Ilya: We first wandered into Courtyard Antiques about ten years ago — back when we’d just moved to Edinburgh, and everything felt like a mystery. But even then, this two-story antique shop, hidden away in what looked like an old stable, felt like something out of another time.

Lena: We were hooked right away. I remember it feeling like a page out of a children’s book — wild-looking masks, vintage boat & plane models, giant spotlights, intricate swords, rocking horses with these weirdly intense eyes… I wanted to take half the shop home and turn our tiny rented flat into a museum of childhood dreams.

Ilya: Yeah, but all we could afford back then was a set of old apothecary bottles and a mannequin head, which we ended up using as a hat stand for years.

Lena: The owner reminded us a bit of Bernard Black from Black Books — he mostly stayed behind the glass door of his office, not in a hurry to come out.

Ilya: We only properly got to know him in 2025, and, turns out, Lewis is kind of like a Black Books character. When we suggested filming, the first thing he said was that he had no interesting stories to tell. Then, right in the middle of our shoot, the shop’s landline rang. I joked about unplugging it. Lewis just shrugged and pulled the cord right out.

Lena: And for the record — him having no interesting stories? An outright lie.

In Their Own Words: Lewis on His Relationship with Objects that Have a History and the Finds He Would Never Sell

Full transcript of our conversation with Lewis.

My name is Lewis Rosa, I have Courtyard Antiques in Edinburgh. It’s been my business for 37 years. 27 in this shop and 10 in another shop in the street. 

The search for interesting objects is what keeps me going. I think that’s why everybody does antiques, they just love to find things. And over the years it’s happened, I’ve found some very interesting items that I’ve enjoyed having. And I hope to continue for a few years more.

The Shop You’ll Never Find (Unless You Know It’s There)

I came here, to this very space, at the end of 1997. It didn’t look like it does now, I had to build the office, put the staircase in and level the floor. This used to be a cow shed and it still had all the slurry bits and the pens for the cattle. So that all had to be concreted over and levelled off.

I called my shop Courtyard Antiques because it has a courtyard, which is shared with two other businesses. There’s a lovely Spanish couple at the front who run a coffee shop, and upstairs, there’s Frank, who restores paintings for museums and art galleries. We all get along well, and it’s a nice little community here.

Outside the shop, I have two very large palm trees. I brought them here very early on, maybe within the first year of moving in. They originally stood outside my house, but for my wife’s birthday, my son bought her two bay trees, so I decided to bring the palm trees up here instead.

It’s amazing how they’ve shot up over time. They get a lot of sun in the summertime, and I take care of them. They really add to the old-world feel of the courtyard. They were just babies when they came here — only about two feet tall, and they had survived outside the house, although I thought they were maybe more an indoor plant. But over the years, I’ve noticed that people do grow them around Edinburgh, and some are even bigger than mine.

My shop is tucked away up a lane, which isn’t the most ideal situation. On the other hand, it’s a double-edged sword — it’s a really interesting building, and there’s parking, which is a big deal around here. But I’ve had people living in this area for twenty years who never even knew my shop was here.

What kind of people come into my shop? All kinds really. I have children that are interested in antiques, which are really great. They come in with their parents and they’re obviously interested in the militaria and the toy cars and everything. I’ve been here so long that I’ve seen babies grow up into full grown people. And they remember coming to this shop and it’s really nice that they enjoy coming. It’s just really nice meeting people. Most of them are wonderful. 

I would say the demographic here is sort of early 20s into 60s. There’s a lot of people in Edinburgh who like to wear vintage clothing. Dress as if they’re in the 40s or earlier. And I do occasionally get stuff like that in. So I get a lot of young people in looking for that kind of thing. And also older people — even if they just come in to have a look, they’re swatting the memories off like flies. You see all these things you remember from when they were seven. And they’re now seventy. They just really enjoy seeing things they’ve never seen for years.

Famous Customers

I’ve had a few really interesting people just turn up at my door. The most bizarre one, I thought, was Barry Manilow. I could never quite understand how he ended up in my shop, but he was looking for a Mahjong set, which, unfortunately, I didn’t have. John Denver came in once too, before he was sadly killed in a plane crash.

My favourite, though, was John Byrne, the artist. He used to come in quite a lot — we’d sit and have a cup of tea, and he’d buy penknives. I once had a really nice set of sable paintbrushes, which he wanted, so I gave them to him. I said, “I’m sure you’ll make good use of these”.

He also bought a gramophone from me, which I’d picked up from a house clearance. It came with a huge stack of swing records, and I used to play them in the shop when customers were around. It was amazing — people would start dancing at the top of the shop, proper cheek-to-cheek dancing. He bought it because he loved the records, but he kept it in his studio while he painted. I delivered it to him, and his studio turned out to be just the spare bedroom in his Marchmont home. It was a fairly small room with electric light, no northern light or anything special. But that’s where he worked — and it was fascinating to see.

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The Antiques Dealer’s Guide to Taking Days Off

My wife, who is very understanding, enjoys going down south with me. We used to go to Newark[-on-Trent — editor’s note] and the Wetherby Racecourse and stay in that area. We always go to the same hotel in York which has parking. I think I’m obsessed with parking. But if you’re going out to buy antiques and they’re in the back of the car, you don’t want to leave the car in a public car park. So the Minster Hotel is wonderful for parking. We go to Betty’s Tea Rooms every night, and we always know that we’re going to get a nice meal there and the service is excellent.

We alternate between Harrogate and York. And we drive around in the sunshine. I have a Saab 900 convertible which we’ve owned for 32 years. We have the roof down and fill the back up with all sorts of purchases. We came home once with a massive bass drum in the back. On one occasion we had a really wonderful stag’s head, but we couldn’t get the roof up. So we drove all the way back with a stag’s head sticking out of the back of the car. But we have really good fun.

Auctions aren’t really a good idea for me because it would mean closing the shop, and I do get a lot of stick for that. But sometimes, I have to go out and find things, visit people’s houses. That’s why I now open at 11 am — it gives me time in the morning to shop for stock, drop by people’s houses to view things, and still be back in time to open the shop.

I did have a lady who worked with me for 27 years, and she was wonderful. I could go off and leave her, knowing everything would be fine. She was one of those people who just couldn’t sit still. She’d even phone me while we were on holiday to ask where the floor paint was so she could paint the floor. But then her children had grandchildren, and they were down south, so she and her husband moved there. So now, I’m here on my own.

I get a lot of trouble for running this shop on my own. I get a lot of hassle for running this shop on my own. I have to go out to buy things and take care of other stuff, but I haven’t quite got into the habit of calling Google and saying, “Can you let people know I’ll be closed tomorrow?” They don’t really work like that — you need to give them some notice.

And besides, I don’t take days off when it’s pouring rain. I take days off when the sun’s out. So I might be here for six weeks straight without a break, then suddenly take a day off — and sure enough, someone will be on the phone or online saying, “I travelled all the way to Courtyard Antiques, and it says online it’s open, but it’s closed!”

...You should get your shit together, basically.

I don’t take any pleasure in annoying people, but at the end of the day, it’s only an antique shop. If it’s closed, just move on to the next one.

Things Lewis Will Never Sell (Except That One Time, and He Regrets It)

Personally, I don’t like a mess — I like things to be tidy. Even though I have a lot in here, you can still move around and see everything. I would never pile things up. The idea of having a house so cluttered that you couldn’t even see what’s in it would horrify me.

When I buy things, I get them because I like them, but I also consider how they’ll look in the shop. And if I sell something from a certain spot, I don’t just move something else into its place — I usually end up rearranging half the shop because it no longer feels right. It takes a while since I’m here on my own. Occasionally, some poor unsuspecting customer walks in and ends up helping me carry something — someone I know, not necessarily a friend, but a regular who doesn’t mind lending a hand. I’m quite particular about where things go.

Deciding what to buy isn’t difficult — I instantly know if I like something or not. But don’t ask me to explain how — I just know. Part of that is thinking about how it fits in the shop or how hard it might be to sell. At the end of the day, I want to sell everything, so even if something is wonderful, if it’s too big or out of place, I’ll pass. I can walk around a fair and not find a single thing I want, so I’m not a mad buyer. Though there have been a few close calls where I almost left without buying anything.

The largest item I’ve ever had here was a full-sized horse, and it came about in an unusual way. I should say that I had a friend — he’s now 86 — and we used to go to an auction in Sighthill called Shapes. We’d have breakfast first, then head to the auction, where I’d make a list of the things I wanted. Then, on Saturday, he’d go back and bid for them on my behalf. One of those things was a First World War saddle, a very distinctive 1917-dated piece. I also bought a shabrack, the embroidered George V blanket that goes under the saddle, complete with the Royal Cypher and everything.

One night, lying in bed, I started thinking — what do I need to go with these?

A horse.

I looked online but couldn’t find anything remotely the right size or stature. Then, as luck would have it, I passed a garden centre in Bilston, on the way to Peebles, and spotted a massive fibreglass horse in the yard. It was in bad shape — cracked, brown and white — but it was perfect. So, with a bit of effort, we strapped it to the roof of my car and drove the five miles back. That definitely caused a bit of a stir.

Once here, I painted it matte black, waxed it, and highlighted the white markings on its face and feet. Then I built a wheeled platform to make it look like a giant pull-along toy.

The fibreglass mane wasn’t quite right, so I ordered real horsehair and spent a week stitching together a proper mane and tail. It took forever, but when I get an idea, I stick with it. When it was finally done, I thought it looked incredible — and so did everyone who saw it.

Eventually, I started thinking about the day I’d have to move out of here. Then someone showed interest in it — a brewery owner who wanted a horse to stand in front of a cart. So it went from modelling here to hard work in a brewery, tied to a cart.

And I miss it now.

I actually wish I hadn’t sold it.

I like models — I’ve got a few in here, and I’m especially fond of aeroplane models. I was lucky enough to get a beautiful model of a Sunderland flying boat in military finish. I feel a real connection to the history of Sunderlands.

Back when the British Empire was still in place, families living in India or Africa in the 1930s to 1950s would send their children to boarding school in the UK. They often travelled on Sunderlands and other flying boats, which were the height of luxury at the time — like the Concorde of their day. Passengers weren’t strapped in like on modern planes. Some had wicker seats, tables, and even sofas, and the service was like that of a grand hotel. I love the idea of that. I wouldn’t call those children poor — they were probably having quite the adventure — but I don’t think I would have liked being sent off to boarding school.

In connection with flying boats, I have a wonderful mailbag that I actually found here in Edinburgh. A chap had bought it in San Francisco while on holiday and used it regularly when flying back and forth. But he always claimed that security stopped him because they didn’t like the look of the bag — it looked too official for a normal passenger to have. Though he seemed to enjoy the attention. I don’t think he ever got strip-searched.

I really love it and annoy loads of people by refusing to sell it. Over the years, I’ve found and sold other ones, mostly railway mailbags, which are the same type but slightly smaller. In America, especially, they had very nice mailbags with a padlock on top — really decorative items. This one actually has FB written on it, for Flying Boat, along with a number.

My absolute favourite item in the shop is a large wooden four-blade propeller. The fact that it has four blades makes it quite unusual. It came from a de Havilland DH.4, dating back to 1917, which means it belonged to the Royal Flying Corps rather than the Royal Air Force, as the RAF wasn’t formed until the following year.

Strangely enough, it came from Edinburgh Airport. Back in the 1970s, there was a bar there with the propeller mounted on the wall. But when the airport was reorganised, the upstairs bar disappeared, and the propeller ended up in a storeroom — or possibly a boiler room.

My stepbrother worked at the airport, and when he was retiring, they asked him what he’d like as a retirement gift. He said he’d love the propeller, knowing I’d love it too. So they gave it to him, and I went with him to collect it. We carried it through the airport, which definitely turned a few heads — people were probably thinking, “God, I hope that’s not off my plane!”

I really love that piece.

There’s a whole story about the Hollywood spotlight too. As I mentioned, my wife and I love go antiquing, and for years, we used to go to Florida with the kids. I always had certain things in mind that I wanted to find — like an Indian headdress or other unique pieces. So I’d turn it into a game and tell my two boys, “The first one to spot an Indian headdress gets a prize!” They got really into it, especially my older son — he’d find things he wanted too, like belt buckles and bits and pieces. It made for a great family day out.

On one of those trips, we came across a 1940s studio light, made in California and used during the Golden Age of Hollywood. This very light could have shone on Clark Gable or some other big star of the time.

You often see these lights in TV studios now — not turned on, but placed in the background as a nod to the past. They’re really popular and quite pricey, but I managed to get mine home by taking it apart and spreading the pieces across all our suitcases. And that’s another thing I absolutely love.

When my oldest son was five, someone brought in a 1920s pedal tricycle with a boot on the back — the kind everyone wants now. He would race madly up and down the street with a gnome sticking out of the boot. And my son became very, very good on it. You know, a tricycle, like a motorcycle with a sidecar, it’s quite a hard thing to corner with, but he got it down to a fine art. He was flying around corners, and obviously eventually he grew up and moved away.

My oldest now lives in Hollywood, in California, and he has two girls. One’s three and one’s just a few months old at the moment. So I hang on to this tricycle in the hope that one day they’ll get it. People ask to buy that too, and I try and explain as nicely as I can that it’s my son’s and I don’t want to sell it, but they don’t always appreciate that.

I have a strange set of hippopotamus family. There’s four of them. There’s a big mummy and then three children, all different sizes, which apparently was bought from Harrods in 1968. I thought it was a really cute thing when I bought it, but nobody seems to want to own it yet. But I live in hope.

When I was a kid and got Christmas money, I’d disappear off to the Grassmarket and wander through all the antique shops. Back then, they were full of swords, lances, and halberds — those big axe-like weapons. I was already into antiques, so I’d buy them and bring them home. My dad, who was in his 50s when I was born — so well past the stage of wanting young kids around — would go absolutely mad and confiscate everything on the spot. That’s probably why I’ve ended up in a shop filled with all this stuff now. The weapons would just vanish. I also used to buy bows and arrows from a sports shop called Thorntons — proper archery ones, the kind you shoot at targets. And I’d wander the streets with them, constantly getting into trouble.

Then, when I finally had the freedom to do what I wanted — my dad passed away when I was 19 — I went out and started buying up all sorts of things, especially katanas. But then I got married, had a family, and eventually, everything had to be sold.

Now I have eight katanas, which I don’t sell. That’s a Japanese World War II flag behind them. I have a lot of respect for Japanese culture — quite violent, but with real standards. In the American army, soldiers could bring home whatever they liked — some even shipped back luxury yachts from France. Ordinary soldiers were bringing back Japanese swords, helmets, Lugers, anything.

The British army, on the other hand, was much stricter. If you were caught coming off the boat with weapons or souvenirs, you could get into serious trouble — unless you were an officer. Officers could get permission from their superior in the form of a written letter, allowing them to bring home a katana. That’s one of those letters over there, from Burma, granting an officer permission to return home with a Japanese sword. But, of course, they still found their way back. I remember the Grassmarket in the ‘50s and ‘60s being full of Japanese swords — you could pick one up for seven and six.

I had the Aston Martin DB6, but we had to sell it to buy nappies. Back in 1977, you could get an Aston Martin in good condition for £3,000 — which was a lot of money then, I suppose. I had worked my way up to it by flipping cheaper cars. I was mad about cars. My first was a Triumph Vitesse, a kind of sports car from the early ‘60s. Then I had TRs and MGs, running them for a while before selling them in the paper, each time upgrading to something better.

Eventually, I ended up with a DB6 Aston Martin, which I bought in London. I did crash it at one point, but I got it repaired. After that, I got a DB4, which was actually much nicer than the DB6 — but that was the one I had to sell to feed my kids.

The other thing I was really keen on as a child was pond yachts. We lived quite close to Inverleith Pond, and I spent a lot of time up there with different pond yachts, restoring them, fixing them up, and sailing them. When I got the shop, I always imagined an antique shop should have pond yachts, swords, and suits of armour — though I’ve only ever had a suit of armour once. All the things that were popular when I was a child, but maybe not so much now.

I once went to a house in Edinburgh where a chap had a massive two-masted schooner pond yacht that he’d had since he was a child. He was nearly 90 years old, and it had been sitting in his garage. The moment I saw it, I fell in love with it. He was quite upset to part with it, but I think he knew I’d take care of it. I restored it, and I’ve now owned it for 25 years — I don’t feel any need to sell it at this point.

He told me a story about how, as a child growing up in Argyll, he used to take it out to sea and let it tow him along. There was a little metal piece on the back that he’d hold onto. It just sounds like a wonderful thing to do — I would have loved to have done that.

It’s amazing where you get invited to buy things. One day, I went to Edinburgh Castle, and a lot of people — myself included — never knew this, but they have a secret entrance, like something straight out of James Bond. It’s a tunnel through the rock, so instead of going through the main entrance, you drive down the side, straight through Edinburgh Rock, and come out halfway up inside the castle. That day, they were clearing out display cases from the museum, along with very lifelike mannequins — real hair and everything. It was a really nice day.

Filming Features

We do prop hire — or, to be more accurate, we used to do prop hire, since it’s gone a bit quiet lately. We supplied props for all the series of Monarch of the Glen, a hugely popular show in the ‘90s about a laird of a stately home up north. He had trains, boats, guns — everything very eccentric. The production company would come by every week or two and take away a whole load of things to hire. They had the wooden propeller, and they never mentioned it to me, but at some point, someone bangs into it and knocks it over. So I ended up watching my own propeller crash to the ground on screen — completely unprepared for it! But luckily, it didn’t get damaged any more than it already was.

Then there was World War Z, where they hired a massive amount of china — only to drive a bus straight into it. Afterwards, they rang me up to ask if I wanted any of the surviving pieces back. But china really isn’t my thing, so I was more than happy to sell it all to them. Over the years, we’ve worked on all sorts of productions.

Then, of course, there’s the Edinburgh Festival, which always brought in prop requests. I’d get calls from Australia — someone putting on a one-woman show would need a rug, a table, a lamp, and a chair, and I’d set everything aside and deliver it to the theatre. One time, an American company hired some things, and my wife and I went along to deliver them. They got us involved with setting up the set, which ended up being great fun — climbing ladders, putting everything in place. Afterwards, we all went for a drink, and it was a really lovely experience.

Outlander was probably the most unusual production we worked with because they go right back to the 1300s and 1400s. They were always looking for old ropes, chains, and various antique pieces. I’ve never actually watched it, but from what I understand, there’s a woman who travels through time and appears in different eras. I think the series is ending this year. The thing is, I was only ever hiring out items I’d originally bought to sell, whereas other companies have shelves full of props that are just there specifically for hire. I believe a couple of dedicated prop hire businesses have opened in Glasgow, which is probably why I don’t see as much of that work anymore.

The Second Floor and Second Thoughts about Customer Service

The second floor of my shop is more utilitarian — kitchen cupboards, wardrobes, chests of drawers, and other furniture. But unfortunately, I think I miss a lot of sales because people come in, get completely distracted by the swords, and leave straight away. They don’t even notice the stairs leading up to all the furniture. I try to mention it as they’re heading out — there’s furniture upstairs! — but by that time, they’re gone.

People often compliment the place, and some even say, “I visit antique shops all over the world, and this is one of the nicest ones I’ve been in.” That’s always nice to hear. And sure, 80% of people don’t buy anything, but you can’t get upset about that — it’s just the way it is.

I’ve come up with a new approach — I don’t say, “Can I help you?” anymore, because that just gets a knee-jerk “No, I’m just looking.” Instead, I say, “Are you happy browsing?” But even then, some people practically jump and blurt out, “I’m only looking!” And I just say, “Well, that’s why I’m asking — if you’re happy browsing.” I always leave people to it, but if I see someone lingering over something, I’ll casually mention that I’m always happy to make a deal. That said, a lot of people just prefer to be left alone, and after 30-odd years, I’ve taken that on board.

The other strange thing is that people seem to like the shop so much — they want to be part of it. If they have things they’ve owned for a long time, they often feel this is the right place for them to end up — that I’ll find them a good home. Sometimes, I’ll come in the morning and find things left outside — good things. Boxed fishing rods, cabinets — items people just want me to have, without asking for any money. It’s very kind of them. I’ve never been left with anything I’d immediately throw in the bin. Everything has been worth keeping, and I really appreciate that people think of me when deciding where to pass things on.

Some people come in, wander around, and say, “This is wonderful — it’s just like a museum!” And I always tell them, “Well, and if you actually bought something, it would be just like a shop.”

When I first started this shop, we were a limited company, VAT registered, everything. But after Covid, I shortened the hours, my turnover dropped significantly, and now I’m under the VAT threshold. I don’t go to fairs as often as I used to — I used to go every month or so, back when antiques were really popular. If you didn’t go, you’d end up with a shop with nothing in it. But it’s not the same now, so we don’t need to buy as much.

I’ll slowly wind things down, but I don’t have any concrete plans for the next year or two. I enjoy it — I wouldn’t even know what else to do. I’d still end up buying things, and before long, I’d have a house full of stuff — and my wife would probably throw me out.

What’s amazing about being an antique dealer is that every day is different — you never know what’s going to happen or who’s going to walk through the door. That’s what makes the antique business so special.

There’s a saying: If you enjoy what you do, you never work a day in your life.

That’s exactly how I feel.