On This Oxgangs Day

The blog for today, (16th April), is taken from the Facebook group 'In The Season of the Year - An Oxgangs Diary' published each day. Two books capture these extracts are displayed in the photo attachments, one covering Spring (February - May) 'On This Oxgangs Day 1971-2021 Spring' with multiple entries for each day from across half a century. The other book 'In the Season of the Year An Oxgangs Diary 1971-2021' covers a single Oxgangs related post for each day of the year. Both books are available through Amazon.

16th April 1983 (Age 26) We took a 42 bus up to Causewayside where I picked up a delightful wee book on the Pentlands – Pentland Days and Country Ways by Will Grant, for only £2. It’s a while since I’ve been up there. It’s also good that we’ve a couple of local second-hand bookshops close-by the flat at Canonmills. In the evening I completed Magnus Merriman – at last. I guess overall it’s been okay but if it hadn’t been set in Edinburgh I would have thought ill of it. I feel it’s over-rated, definitely a one–off read. Later on I laughed and laughed at Clive James’ Late Late Show. 😂 Earlier around 9 o’clock I poked my head out the back door at the drizzle coming down. To my surprise I noticed the pear blossom seems to be out.

1984 (Age 27) After such a long day, I ought to have dark rings under my eyes. It was the Edinburgh Spring Holiday and a sunny one too, but with a cold wind. Martha was working. I was off. After a gentle early morning jog and a light breakfast I drove across a quiet capital picking up a Scotsman newspaper at Lennox Newsagent’s, Comiston Road, en-route to Swanston Village. From there I walked up Allermuir, stopping every now and then to look back toward the north and across the city taking in the views. A tractor-man was already out, the life on a spring morning. There were also two shepherds out, checking on lambs. I was quite amazed at the speed with which they walked, one of whom looked about 60 years old. Such an outdoor life obviously keeps you fit. Similarly when I drove past Swanston Farm, I’d noticed a very fit looking older farm-worker. As I gradually walked up toward the summit I was surprised at just how hard I was breathing and also how wobbly my legs were.

On the summit itself, in the shady parts, there was still a heavy frost. There was a snell wind a-blowing. However, I managed to find a sunny sheltered spot, stopped off for black coffee and some bran biscuits. In between looking through my small binoculars taking in the panoramic views across Edinburgh, to Fife beyond, I read some extracts from Stevenson’s Letters (Vol 1). Mid-morning I headed down to Oxgangs to pick up Mum. We drove down to Porty to pick up Grandma Joan and Aunt Dottle before setting off for Peebles via the bonny Meldons. We enjoyed a filling lunch at Innerleithen and of course a Caldwell’s ice cream. The shops at Peebles were busy. On an Edinburgh Holiday it’s clearly a popular haunt. We took an alternative route home, via Stobo, Broughton, before stopping at an antiques shop in West Linton. Joan very much enjoyed herself, but I was less sure about Dottle and Mum. After dropping them off I did a wee track session on the Edinburgh University track out at Peffermill. And then home, appropriately enough to watch the first part of Stevenson’s The Master of Balantrae. I found it poor, unrealistic, with stilted dialogue. I was reflecting upon how very unfortunate that RLS died so young, as the unfinished Weir of Hermiston hinted at some very special work ahead. A great pity. Anyway I was glad to have taken Grandma Joan out today. She may not see many more Spring Holidays (famous last words!) Today, her eye was giving her problems, with a thread running through her vision. I hope it’s nothing serious.

TO THE PENTLAND HILLS from Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes by Robert Louis Stevenson

The country people call it General Kay's monument. 

According to them, an officer of that name had perished there in battle at some indistinct period before the beginning of history. The date is reassuring; for I think cautious writers are silent on the General's exploits. But the stone is connected with one of those remarkable tenures of land which linger on into the modern world from Feudalism.Whenever the reigning sovereign passes by, a certain landed proprietor is held bound to climb on to the top, trumpet in hand, and sound a flourish according to the measure of his knowledge in that art. Happily for a respectable family, crowned heads have no great business in the Pentland Hills. But the story lends a character of comicality to the stone; and the passer-by will sometimes chuckle to himself.

The district is dear to the superstitious. 

Hard by, at the back-gate of Comiston, a belated carter beheld a lady in white, 'with the most beautiful, clear shoes upon her feet,' who looked upon him in a very ghastly manner and then vanished; and just in front is the Hunters' Tryst, once a roadside inn, and not so long ago haunted by the devil in person. 

Satan led the inhabitants a pitiful existence. He shook the four corners of the building with lamentable outcries, beat at the doors and windows, overthrew crockery in the dead hours of the morning, and danced unholy dances on the roof. Every kind of spiritual disinfectant was put in requisition; chosen ministers were summoned out of Edinburgh and prayed by the hour; pious neighbours sat up all night making a noise of psalmody; but Satan minded them no more than the wind about the hill-tops; and it was only after years of persecution, that he left the Hunters' Tryst in peace to occupy himself with the remainder of mankind. 

What with General Kay, and the white lady, and this singular visitation, the neighbourhood offers great facilities to the makers of sun-myths; and without exactly casting in one's lot with that disenchanting school of writers, one cannot help hearing a good deal of the winter wind in the last story. 

'That nicht,' says Burns in one of his happiest moments,-

'THAT NICHT A CHILD MIGHT UNDERSTAND
THE DEIL HAD BUSINESS ON HIS HAND.'

And if people sit up all night in lone places on the hills, with Bibles and tremulous psalms, they will be apt to hear some of the most fiendish noises in the world; the wind will beat on doors and dance upon roofs for them, and make the hills howl around their cottage with a clamour like the judgment-day.

The road goes down through another valley, and then finally begins to scale the main slope of the Pentlands. A bouquet of old trees stands round a white farmhouse; and from a neighbouring dell, you can see smoke rising and leaves ruffling in the breeze. 

Straight above, the hills climb a thousand feet into the air. The neighbourhood, about the time of lambs, is clamorous with the bleating of flocks; and you will be awakened, in the grey of early summer mornings, by the barking of a dog or the voice of a shepherd shouting to the echoes. This, with the hamlet lying behind unseen, is Swanston.

The place in the dell is immediately connected with the city. Long ago, this sheltered field was purchased by the Edinburgh magistrates for the sake of the springs that rise or gather there. After they had built their water-house and laid their pipes, it occurred to them that the place was suitable for junketing. Once entertained, with jovial magistrates and public funds, the idea led speedily to accomplishment; and Edinburgh could soon boast of a municipal Pleasure House. The dell was turned into a garden; and on the knoll that shelters it from the plain and the sea winds, they built a cottage looking to the hills. 

They brought crockets and gargoyles from old St Giles which they were then restoring, and disposed them on the gables and over the door and about the garden; and the quarry which had supplied them with building material, they draped with clematis and carpeted with beds of roses. So much for the pleasure of the eye; for creature comfort, they made a capacious cellar in the hillside and fitted it with bins of the hewn stone. In process of time, the trees grew higher and gave shade to the cottage, and the evergreens sprang up and turned the dell into a thicket. There, purple magistrates relaxed themselves from the pursuit of municipal ambition; cocked hats paraded soberly about the garden and in and out among the hollies; authoritative canes drew ciphering upon the path; and at night, from high upon the hills, a shepherd saw lighted windows through the foliage and heard the voice of city dignitaries raised in song.

The farm is older. It was first a grange of Whitekirk Abbey, tilled and inhabited by rosy friars. Thence, after the Reformation it passed into the hands of a true-blue Protestant family. During the covenanting troubles, when a night conventicle was held upon the Pentlands, the farm doors stood hospitably open till the morning; the dresser was laden with cheese and bannocks, milk and brandy; and the worshippers kept slipping down from the hill between two exercises, as couples visit the supper-room between two dances of a modern ball. 

In the Forty-Five, some foraging Highlanders from Prince Charlie's army fell upon Swanston in the dawn. The great-grandfather of the late farmer was then a little child; him they awakened by plucking the blankets from his bed, and he remembered, when he was an old man, their truculent looks and uncouth speech. The churn stood full of cream in the dairy, and with this they made their brose in high delight. 'It was braw brose,' said one of them. At last they made off, laden like camels with their booty; and Swanston Farm has lain out of the way of history from that time forward. I do not know what may be yet in store for it. On dark days, when the mist runs low upon the hill, the house has a gloomy air as if suitable for private tragedy. But in hot July, you can fancy nothing more perfect than the garden, laid out in alleys and arbours and bright, old-fashioned flower- plots, and ending in a miniature ravine, all trellis-work and moss and tinkling waterfall, and housed from the sun under fathoms of broad foliage.

The hamlet behind is one of the least considerable of hamlets, and consists of a few cottages on a green beside a burn. Some of them (a strange thing in Scotland) are models of internal neatness; the beds adorned with patchwork, the shelves arrayed with willow- pattern plates, the floors and tables bright with scrubbing or pipe-clay, and the very kettle polished like silver. It is the sign of a contented old age in country places, where there is little matter for gossip and no street sights. Housework becomes an art; and at evening, when the cottage interior shines and twinkles in the glow of the fire, the housewife folds her hands and contemplates her finished picture; the snow and the wind may do their worst, she has made herself a pleasant corner in the world. 

The city might be a thousand miles away, and yet it was from close by that Mr. Bough painted the distant view of Edinburgh which has been engraved for this collection; and you have only to look at the etching, to see how near it is at hand. But hills and hill people are not easily sophisticated; and if you walk out here on a summer Sunday, it is as like as not the shepherd may set his dogs upon you. But keep an unmoved countenance; they look formidable at the charge, but their hearts are in the right place, and they will only bark and sprawl about you on the grass, unmindful of their master's excitations.

In Remembrance

With Remembrance Sunday fast approaching and in its centenary year (1918-2018) I thought I might post this article by David McLean from earlier in the year.

 Family pays respects to German pilot killed in historic Pentlands plane crash Klaus Forster, 80 (third from the right) and four generations of his family from Germany attended the memorial site at Hare Hill, Pentlands where his father, a Luftwaffe bomber pilot, died when his aircraft crashed in August 1943.

The family of a Luftwaffe pilot killed when his plane crashed in Scotland 75 years ago have visited Scotland to pay their respects to him.

Klaus Förster, 80, the late airman’s son, along with four generations of the family, travelled from Germany to the crash site memorial at Hare Hill in the Pentlands near Edinburgh.

Photograph, Gary Nelson

On the evening of 24 March 1943, a four-man crew including Oberstleutnant Fritz Förster embarked on a mission to bomb Leith Docks aimed at disrupting wartime naval traffic in and out of the busy port.

Their Junker JU 88 left an airstrip near Paris and travelled up the Dutch North Sea coast before turning north-west towards the Firth of Forth. On their approach, however, the crew failed to locate their target and decided to jettison their incendiary payload across farmland outside Edinburgh.

But as they made their way south across the Pentlands, their plane struggled to clear the summit of Hare Hill and crashed into the hillside.

Mr Förster and the other three crew were killed and the wreckage was scattered over a half-mile radius.

Photograph, Neil Daniel

After the airmen were laid to rest in 1964, the location of the crash site faded from public knowledge. But in the late 1990s aircraft enthusiast Kenny Walker became fascinated by the story and set about trying to find the crash site.

Mr Walker said: “I’d read about the crash and knew a small fragment had been found on the hill. I’d searched one side of the hill, but grew fed up of not finding anything. “I noticed that the whole hill was covered in heather except for one area of grass. I went back with the metal detector and ‘bingo’.”

Having discovered the crash site, Mr Walker felt the crew deserved to be suitably remembered and worked towards funding a memorial. “The memorial was erected in the latter half of 1999,” he said. “It’s just a wooden post with a small plaque, so it was very easy to erect.”

He said people questioned whether there should be a memorial to Nazi airmen. However, he said: “I felt they should be remembered as human beings.”

Photograph, Neil Daniel

News of the memorial made its way to the Försters in Germany and the airman’s granddaughter Birgit announced that members of the family would like to attend the memorial’s unveiling. Mr Walker said: “Ten of them made it, including Fritz’s son Klaus with his wife and their two daughters.”

A Christmas card last year from Klaus Förster’s grandson Max Quass informed Kenny that the family were returning to Scotland on holiday and wanted to re-visit the memorial. He added: “There was a real feeling of reflection and remembrance. Klaus genuinely appreciates what has been done, not just for his father but for the other three men too. “If you strip away the horror and nastiness of the war, you realise that four men died at this spot. That’s the important thing we need to remember.”

Postscript

There are various photographs on the link below;

http://www.aircrashsites-scotland.co.uk/junkers-ju88_hare-hill.htm

David McLean's article and with over 40 comments may be found at the link below:

https://www.scotsman.com/news/family-pays-respects-to-german-pilot-killed-in-historic-pentlands-plane-crash-1-4658299?fbclid=IwAR3LFwyQZAzZ09IskLT2zCXmdJIfysEXJA52sg-oUlH-wB6QecSr0f4hGcY

The Sunday Post #5 One Mid-Summer Morning

Pentland Hills and T Plantation circa 1914 (Photographer Unknown

Edinburgh Libraries, Museums and Galleries Collection)

This wonderful old photograph from a century ago shows three schoolgirls walking down Swanston Road through the farmland and fields. 

Swanston Farm, Robert Hope

There is no sign of Swanston Farm or Swanston Golf Club. 

The Old Schoolhouse in Swanston Village was in existence, so perhaps the girls are heading off to school in the morning. 

The Pentland Hills and the T Woods can be seen clearly in the distance. 

The scree slopes of the hills were no different fifty years later come the 1960s when the Blades; the Hoggs; and the Hoffmanns stood at their living room windows looking out for the number 16 bus coming down Oxgangs Road North.

There are hay stacks in one of the distant fields and one of the girls is only wearing a blouse, so we might surmise it is late summer. 

They are all dressed smartly in their straw hats; skirts; and dresses and each of them is carrying a metal case perhaps containing their school-books and lunches. 

On a fine summer morn or in early autumn the walk would be refreshing and enjoyable. However, on a bitter winter's morning, in the semi-darkness or in the cold of a March morning with a biting wind it would have been a very different story. But, at least they walked together which would have eased their passage and no doubt they will have enjoyed each other's company. Still, it's a long exposed country lane and one which we at The Stair often travelled along on our adventures to the Pentland Hills half a century later and half a century ago.

I wonder where the girls are coming from as back then, there wouldn't have been many houses in Fairmilehead. 

Perhaps they were sisters and lived at the old Hunters Tryst Farm. 

It's certainly a very lovely photograph capturing a moment in time. 

I also wonder who the photographer was. Was it set up or just serendipity? Perhaps their mum and dad wanted to capture that special moment in time to treasure and hold dear in their hearts, before the girls grew up, left home and moved on to follow life's journey. 

They are all smartly dressed and don't look poor. Their outfits - straw hats, skirts and dresses remind me very much of the two girls in The Railway Children. They all look quite lady-like - composed and serene, but not prim. If there had been a companion photograph taken at the end of the school day, it might have been quite different. We would of course see their faces and perhaps being the end of the school day and free from their lessons, we might have seen them un-lady-like taking to their heels, racing downhill from Swanston Village to head homewards for their tea and back to the welcome bosom of the family home.

Because we can't see the girls’ faces it adds to the elusiveness of the subject material. It forces the viewer to use their imagination.

You can't but help wonder what happened to each girl. The First World War was a matter of months away. Did they go on to become wives and mothers or follow a career in nursing or teaching? Did they remain in Edinburgh or move on to other towns or even make a life for themselves abroad?

In a way, the photograph reminds me of the cover of the novel Three German Farmers On The Way To A Dance by Richard Powers which was based on an old photograph. 

It seems to me that in the hands of a fine novelist such as Joan Lingard a rather good story might be weaved.

Postscript: In late 2017 I came across an update that revealed the premise on which I based the vignette was false - if you look closely the girls are actually carrying milk carriers!  Still, much of my musings on what happened to the girls remains true so I thought I would leave the vignette as it stands!

Oxgangs - A Pastime From Time Past #4 The Stairs

From Graeme Robb: 'The best thing about living in a stair was no matter the weather you had some where to play - 2/4 David Robertson, 4/4 John Ritchie, 6/3 Alan Smith, 7/6 John Kay Oxgangs Park and all the others a bit older - Johnny McQueen, John Rumbles, Andrew Ritchie, Andrew Bruce. Off up the Pentlands or Braids first thing and back just before dark. The building of the gas houses - what a playground, we drove the watches and the police mad - daily warnings at school of how dangerous it was. Jumping from third floor windows in to sand pits. All great fun.

Comment from Paul Forbes: 'I remember some bastard had put bricks under the sand we used to land in at one of the sites. Unbelievably , I can’t recall anybody getting seriously hurt'.

Comiston Farmhouse, 1920

Harvest Field, Braidburn Valley, with Comiston Farm and the Pentlands in the distance, 1920
('Mark', The Living Memory Association)

A rather wonderful photograph from almost a century ago.

Army Tank, Pentlands

For those followers of 'The Stair' who didn't see Tom Thorbun's very interesting post on the 'Like Warriors' website, he gave me the thumbs up to also post it on 'The Stair' too. 

By way of preface, the more mature readers of the blog will recall the army tank which was sited in the lea of the north side of the Pentlands, not far away from the T Woods. 

When we were young, many Hunters Tryst Primary School pupils ventured up there, not only to play in the tank, but to also gather used (or unused live ammunition!). Some boys could be seen in Oxgangs and at school walking about with the ammunition proudly on display, until a dictact went out from the school to prevent it from happening, backed up by some police involvement too! 

Here's Tom's post:

'The tank was placed up there by my father John Thorburn for firing practice; he worked as an engineer at Redford Barracks and would come home to Firrhill Crescent in a 12 ton Scammel with crane hook at the rear. He would also take us around Colinton Mains in a jeep.

We used to play up at the tank and on one occasion after collecting empty shell rounds, we found a mortar; being about 8 years old at the time we did not realise the danger and carried it down the road,only to be stopped by a police car at a distance and were told to gently lay it down!

We didn't do that again, but I do remember collecting gooseberries from a field near the Edinburgh by-pass and sitting on a large metal object with fins at one end...we ran like hell! Many years later I informed the police of this find and they told me to relocate it and report back. Needless to say I never did as it was a distant memory, but I believe German bombs were jettisoned over the Pentlands as they flew back from Rosyth bombing raids and the like. 

The Army practice area is at Flotterstone, Castlelaw Rifle Ranges which I helped to build over a two year contract with the Property Services Agency and the Army. It took me out of the office and into the hills....l loved it but couldn't understand why we had to wear protective hats when the ground was full of unexploded mortar shells underfoot!

Vignette On Dr Motley By Artist Vicky Mount

When I was 12 to 17 I lived next door to Dr Motley in the Oxgangs area of Edinburgh. He was the first black American to study in the late 1920's in Scotland and then set up a GP practice in the late 1940's. I remember him as a lovely, kind and jovial man. I regularly took his wee Jack Russell a walk up the Pentlands. A vicious little devil. On returning Dr Motley would give me a handful of sweets. My Mum, a district nurse, whom he called 'Angel' occasionally helped bath his frail and elderly wife. 

When I was 15 I did this drawing from a photograph of him. Also, on my wedding day we went to visit him in hospital.  We turned up in full wedding gear and flowers for him. He couldn't come to the wedding so we took the wedding to him. He was very generous. He gave us £100 in an envelope before the wedding. I was so surprised. He died two months later aged 84.

I'd like to thank my Mum for setting a great example and for never saying, 'he's black but he's very nice' in the way I've often heard down the years.

The Sunday Post #5 One Mid-Summer Morn

Pentland Hills and T Plantation circa 1914 (Photographer Unknown

Edinburgh Libraries, Museums and Galleries Collection)

This wonderful old photograph from a century ago shows three schoolgirls walking down Swanston Road through the farmland and fields. 

There is no sign of Swanston Farm or Swanston Golf Club. 

The Old Schoolhouse in Swanston Village was in existence, so perhaps the girls are heading off to school in the morning. 

The Pentland Hills and the T Woods can be seen clearly in the distance. 

The scree slopes of the hills were no different fifty years later come the 1960s when the Blades; the Hoggs; and the Hoffmanns stood at their living room windows looking out for the number 16 bus coming down Oxgangs Road North.

There are hay stacks in one of the distant fields and one of the girls is only wearing a blouse, so we might surmise it is late summer. 

They are all dressed smartly in their straw hats; skirts; and dresses and each of them is carrying a metal case perhaps containing their school-books and lunches. 

On a fine summer morn or in early autumn the walk would be refreshing and enjoyable. However, on a bitter winter's morning, in the semi-darkness or in the cold of a March morning with a biting wind it would have been a very different story. But, at least they walked together which would have eased their passage and no doubt they will have enjoyed each other's company. Still, it's a long exposed country lane and one which we at The Stair often travelled along on our adventures to the Pentland Hills half a century later and half a century ago.

I wonder where the girls are coming from as back then, there wouldn't have been many houses in Fairmilehead. 

Perhaps they were sisters and lived at the old Hunters Tryst Farm. 

It's certainly a very lovely photograph capturing a moment in time. 

I also wonder who the photographer was. Was it set up or just serendipity? Perhaps their mum and dad wanted to capture that special moment in time to treasure and hold dear in their hearts, before the girls grew up, left home and moved on to follow life's journey. 

They are all smartly dressed and don't look poor. Their outfits - straw hats, skirts and dresses remind me very much of the two girls in The Railway Children. They all look quite lady-like - composed and serene, but not prim. If there had been a companion photograph taken at the end of the school day, it might have been quite different. We would of course see their faces and perhaps being the end of the school day and free from their lessons, we might have seen them un-lady-like taking to their heels, racing downhill from Swanston Village to head homewards for their tea and back to the welcome bosom of the family home.

Because we can't see the girls’ faces it adds to the elusiveness of the subject material. It forces the viewer to use their imagination.

You can't but help wonder what happened to each girl. The First World War was a matter of months away. Did they go on to become wives and mothers or follow a career in nursing or teaching? Did they remain in Edinburgh or move on to other towns or even make a life for themselves abroad?

In a way, the photograph reminds me of the cover of the novel Three German Farmers On The Way To A Dance by Richard Powers which was based on an old photograph. 

It seems to me that in the hands of a fine novelist such as Joan Lingard a rather good story might be weaved.

Postscript: In late 2017 I came across an update that revealed the premise on which I based the vignette was false - if you look closely the girls are actually carrying milk carriers!  Still, much of my musings on what happened to the girls remains true so I thought I would leave the vignette as it stands!

School Summer Holidays

Many books which recall childhood and youth remember the school holidays as a time filled with sunshine-literally and metaphorically-I'm no different. It was always a delicious moment awakening on the first few days knowing that I didn't need to attend school.

For many of us at The Stair-those of us in our teens it didn't mean a long lie in bed as we would always have a job on the go, either delivering milk or newspapers-usually the latter. However, out-with our paper runs and Sundays when we visited our grandparents at Portobello, there was no structure to each day. Games of football would occur spontaneously, but mainly in the early evening. During the day we’d go jumping the burn, following the burn from the lower part of Redford, through Colinton Mains, Firhill and on to Braid Burn Valley.

Small villages would appear at the back field when the girls draped blankets on the fence to form tents. Sometimes families packed a picnic and some blankets and headed to Braid Burn Valley for an outing. We’d go far into the Valley toward the grass steps-an outing wasn't an outing without the children rolling over and over down steps from the top to the bottom. The picnic wouldn't include anything more than a sandwich.

As we got a little older there were other adventures to be sought out-Happy Valley at Craiglockhart; the Craiglockhart Hills and the Pentland Hills too. Once deep into the Pentlands apart from the occasional plane overhead, we had entered a different kingdom-it was a world where the air was fresh, light zephyrs blew through the long grass-sheep grazed in parts-birds flitted through the air-Stevenson wrote of the whoop of the curlews and they continue there to this day. On a visit to Swanston last autumn I ventured there for old times' sake and watched them float on the breeze.

The Craiglockhart Hills are a delightful small set of hills just a fifteen minute walk from Oxgangs across the Colinton Mains Park sports fields and the burn. As with the Pentlands we only visited these hills during the summer months-although in later decades Alison and I used to visit the Merchants Golf Course when the winter snows were there-indeed she was the most exuberant sledger there when around seven months pregnant with Atticus much to her sister's and my concern!

And as with the Pentlands I always felt a certain sense of apprehension and excitement when I ventured to The Craigies, because they always felt both familiar and unfamiliar-this was because we would only visit them once or twice each summer. Part of the excitement of the Craiglockhart Hills was that we (always visited as a group) might bump into other older, bigger boys who could be menacing and second the grounds men who looked after the Merchants Golf Course who often spotted us when they were out on their tractors. They would chase us away-this gave us a real frisson of excitement. On the blind par three third hole we'd sprint on to the green, place a golfer's ball in the cup as if they'd achieved a hole in one and then hide in the woods. The golfer would search all around for his golf ball before taking a desultory glance in the cup followed by a merry jig!

Another memory was the hypnotic effect I felt whilst standing high up on the top of one of the hills, quite close to the edge, and looking down at the long grass on the valley floor which was gently swaying in the wind-I thought how easy it might be to be drawn over the edge such was the effect.

It was great fun being up on the Craiglockhart Hills because it would have been a sunny day which had attracted us up there-and sitting up high, on the dry ground, with the grass gently swaying and the sun beating down, looking over 360 degree views enabled us to take in the panoramic view and enjoy everything that is wonderful about the city. The whole of Edinburgh was laid out before us and being a clear day we could see clear across the River Forth and to the north and the Highlands; turning around we could look to the Pentland Hills and to the south.

As a boy I was getting my bearings, locating and fixing the world-it was a moment of meditation and contemplation.