Today we
toured Edinburgh Castle. I found myself
on the wrong side of the entrance line, and attempted to duck under the elastic
band which was stretched between poles. Suddenly, the band snapped and sailed
towards one of the two poles. I just kept on walking, and muttered something
like, “That’s another blooper!”
After we
entered the grounds of the castle, and prior to departing our company, our city
tour guide directed us to a couple of attractions in the castle. One was a war
memorial building. The other a building which housed Mary, Queen of Scots’
crown jewels. I was determined to visit both.
In the
meantime, my wife and daughter quickly walked through the castle, and from
there went shopping in some of the nearby shops. I stepped inside the war
memorial building, noticed some stained-glass windows, and began to read the
names of war dead beneath them.
At this
point, I pulled out my phone and took a photo of one of the tribute walls. And
then a guard accosted me. Well, perhaps “accosted” is too strong a word. But he
made me aware that no photography was allowed. As I have previously implied, it’s
bad enough to charge big money to tour national monuments and memorial sites. But
not to allow photography, I think it’s unconscionable. At any rate, I left the
building immediately.
I was
committed not to allowing this sort of thing to happen again. I set my sights
on the building which housed Mary, Queen of Scots’ royal jewels. Entering the
chamber, I noticed a glass vault which contained the remains of the Queen. (Not
really). However, her crown and a couple of silver swords graced the vault.
Strange, though the crown was centuries old, the cloth seemed as clean and
fresh, as if it had just been created by the artisan. (I have often looked at
various works of art, be they paintings, or furniture, or carvings, and
thought,
“The hands
that created such beautiful stuff have long since turned to dust. But, oh, what
lovely treasures they left behind.”
As I
departed the castle, I noticed a bagpiper “strutting his stuff” on a street
corner, and an open briefcase beneath his feet, and some coins shone in the
bottom of it. It seems many pipers and acapella singers wearing kilts inhabit
the streets of Edinburgh, and earn their living this way.
Having met
our tour bus at the designated pickup site, I and a few other group members
made our way back to the hotel. After freshening up a bit, I got directions
from the hotel hostess to a couple of spots on my list, and set off for these
particular attractions.
After
walking all of twenty minutes, I arrived at the National Museum of Scotland; the
equivalent of our Smithsonian Museum in Washington D.C. I can tell you I
enjoyed my visit here, as much as anywhere in all of Ireland and Scotland. There
were literally thousands of items on exhibit filling up six floors. (I estimate
that each floor of the building was easily 70,000 square feet).
The topics
surrounding the exhibits ranged from Animals of the World to Sports Figures of
Scotland to Technological Wonders to Ancient Civilizations to Paintings and
Sculptures, to the Roman Occupation of Great Britain, etc., etc.
While I was
there, I viewed a couple of things of particular interest to me.
A cloth
painting of a flower bouquet by a Chinese peasant, which included the signature
of Eric Liddell, (to whom it was presented) a missionary, and one of my (dead)
mentor figures. I was also fascinated with a taxidermied sheep inside a glass
case. This was the infamous “Dolly,” the cloned ewe. Of course, I took pictures
of both of these wonderful relics.
I was a bit
disappointed to see a full scale (formerly living) elephant, giraffe, and a
lion, lioness and their cubs. I assumed they had been killed for the purpose of
display. (I like to think they died of some other natural maladies, and the
museum took advantage of the availability of their carcasses, but I am doubtful
of that contingency).
At any rate,
as I have implied, it is an absolutely wonderful museum, and the two best
things beyond the exhibits were: 1. It was free of charge, (and) 2. They allowed
their patrons to take photographs.
Directly
across the street from the museum was a pub called, “Greyfriars’ Bobby,” and a
church and cemetery directly behind it. It has been a while since I “read all
about it,” but it seems during the 19th century an old man walked to
this pub with his black Scottish (or Skye) Terrier on a daily basis.
Eventually,
the elderly gentleman died, and was buried. Whether the dog attended the
funeral, or whether his new owner visited the old man’s gravesite, I don’t
know. But, ultimately, the pooch learned the whereabouts of the old fellow’s
body. As it fell together, Bobby the terrier returned to the old man’s grave,
and spent time there, every day, for the next fourteen years until his own
death.
Of course,
by now the entire city became aware of the love and loyalty of this special dog
for his master. As a result, people petitioned the church to allow the dog to
be buried behind the old pub. At first the church resisted. This “just would
not do.” However, the cry went far and wide, and the “powers that be”
eventually relented. Today, there is a pink granite headstone behind the pub
which designates Bobby’s resting place.
After I had
taken a photo of the pub, and walked behind it to find Bobby’s gravesite, his
beautiful stone was the first thing which greeted my eyes. Right smack dab in
the middle of the walkway of the graveyard. A Scottish lass of perhaps 25 stood
by the headstone, and recounted the story of Bobby and his love and loyalty.
Her accent was somewhat difficult, and I walked in after the beginning of her
monologue, but I enjoyed her verbal rendition. I noticed a few flowers, and
some sticks in front of Bobby’s stone. (At first the sticks confused me, and
then I thought about what people and dogs do for fun).
After taking
a few pictures, and a video of a few seconds of her speech, I moved on to read
some of the other headstone inscriptions in the cemetery. This place was
ancient, and the headstones had the look of 18th and 19th
century Britain; similar to the headstones which grace Charlotte Bronte’s City
of Haworth.
Having
toured the cemetery, I walked back the way I came in, and took a few pictures
of the small black statue of Bobby in front of the pub. The nose of the
precious creature had been rubbed to a golden burnish. And I can tell you, I
didn’t miss my opportunity to rub his little proboscis.
With this, I
headed back to the hotel, but not without stopping for lunch at the local
Subway. The food preparer was, as usual, a legal foreign resident of Scotland;
(or so I presume). It was difficult to understand her words, but eventually my
sandwich was created and consumed.
Having
arrived at the hotel, I went to my room and prepared for our farewell dinner.
By this time, Jean had also returned to our room, and I told her all about the
events of my day, (and vice versa).
As I sat in
our room, I thought about the events and experiences of the past two weeks, and
it seemed so poignant that I might never see Edinburgh, or for that matter any
of the cities and countryside of Scotland and Ireland again.
I had, in essence, returned in the place of my ancestors. And as they never had the opportunity to return to their homeland, I am doubtful I will see these wonderful places again.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Returning in Their Place." Copyright Pending
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