Christmas is here ........

Christmas is here once again ....... peace on earth, goodwill to all men - plus a great deal of hard work and credit card bashing allowing us to eat drink and be merry for a couple of days. But there is much going on to help relieve the stress of buying presents for friends and family and sending cards to people we never see or speak to from one year to the next. No longer is it just carol singers in shopping centres or visits to Santa in his grotto, giant Christmas trees festooned with hundreds of lights towering above shoppers bustling from store to store, or shop assistants topped with Santa hats and reindeer antlers sellotaping smiles to their faces as they deal with festive queues and turkey tussles. Oh no, Christmas is now much, much more.
German markets, wooden huts laden with Christmas cheer, seem to pop in town and city centres across the country. Packed with all you need for your seasonal celebrations, many are a wonderland of Santas, snowmen, angels and robins nestling beneath shining stars, sparkling snow and flickering candles. Gingerbread houses fight for attention with chocolate fountains, roast chestnuts and spicy fruits. Fancy a quick tipple? Mulled wine, wine that isn't, mulled cider, cider without the mull, mysterious drinks topped with a mountain of cream and marshmallows, German lager, German beer, it's all there, sending out nose-tickling aromas to reel you in. Buy scarves, gloves, hats portraying every animal known to mankind, wooden toys, toys that are not wooden, jewellery, ornaments, stocking fillers, stockings to go around your stocking fillers, everything you need, everything you think you need but don't really, and everything you definitely have no need of at all, yes it's all there. Eat your fill of burgers, pulled pork rolls, hot dogs, crepes, freshly cooked bread ....... then suitably refreshed fight your way through the crowds yet again.
All the fun of the fair appears at Christmas. Visit Edinburgh and see the city from the top of the big wheel - weather permitting - or pick up a few seasonal bumps and bruises on the outdoor ice rink. Carousels across the land are filled with the laughter of children mingling with every Christmas song ever recorded. Ride a train, bounce yourself silly, master a Christmas tree maze, hurtle down a helter skelter, let the big kid in you join your little ones, smile away your worries just for an hour or two ..... This is a time for children, a time for adults who think they are children, a time for families, spending time together, giving, sharing, looking forward to the New Year.
Sometimes I wonder how many of us remember the real reason for Christmas, the story behind the celebrations. The nativity is still played out, although maybe not as prominently as it once was. The first Christmas is still created within our churches, stables can be found in towns sheltering their precious guests. But do we walk past the church doors, or venture in to sing our hearts out or partake of midnight mass? This may be the only occasion we step inside, apart from weddings and funerals, the one time religion may briefly touch our souls. I love Christmas and all it stands for. I love watching the children and grandchildren open their presents, love to see their faces ......... but it is so different to when I was young. The shops were still decorated, the streets adorned with lights, yet somehow it all seemed so much more simplistic, less emphasis on the materialistic and more on families coming together to enjoy the day. And one of my favourite Christmas memories? Walking along the high street with my mum on Christmas Eve - something I will never be fortunate enough to do again - and pausing awhile to listen to the strains of the Salvation Army playing Christmas songs as only they can. A frosty day, a few snowflakes fluttering down from a wintry sky, holding tight to my mum with one mittened hand whilst holding on to my dad's present with the other. Yes, that was truly Christmas .........   

Jelly Babies Rule Ok!!

Dusk falls over the Botanic Gardens, the gates are closed and a late autumn chill takes hold as darkness begins to creep across the lawns and envelop the trees. The squirrels are long gone, the birds have returned to their nests and the quacking of the ducks is silenced as a misty moon begins its journey across the skies. It is into this twilight world that mysterious visitors emerge from the shadows, visitors who appear when all others are gone, when they are safe from prying eyes and mischievous fingers. Only when the world lies silent do the Jelly Babies creep out from their hiding places and take over the Gardens. Not many know of these Jelly Babies, of the adventures they have when freed from the confines of their yellow bags. This is a secret known to only a few, so read, enjoy and then forget .........
Red, yellow, green, black, orange, they are all there, climbing, exploring, running across the grass, swinging from the branches of the trees. Jelly jockeys ride the fir cones as their spiny branches sway in the evening breeze. Jelly ladies gaze at their reflections in the pond as the same breeze ripples its surface, holding their faces until sending them shimmering into the reeds that hem the edges of the water. Giggling Jelly juniors play hide and seek amongst the leaves and dangle from the heads of flowers desperately trying to close their petals for the night. Picnicking on the dew-laden grass, sparkling beneath the first moonbeams of the evening, the Jelly Babies feast on jelly beans, jelly tots and jelly sandwiches. Oh yes, the Jelly Babies love their time in the Botanics when the world is their own, no-one to trample on them, chase them or eat them! Chattering with the scarecrows, splashing in the waterfall's dancing spray, indulging in a berry fight or two, what a wonderful way to spend an evening. And not one piece of clothing in sight so no dirty washing!
No-one has seen the Jelly Babies, not man nor beast, alive or dead. Until now, that is. I have a very dear friend in the Gardens, a certain Sammy the Squirrel. And he has watched from on high, shielded by the treetops, as the Jelly Babies laugh and play in their secret land. During one of our many chats, sat on a bench watching the seasons change and the landscape shift from green to brown and gold to wintry grey, he revealed this lovely tale, promising to bounce pine cones off my head if his secret was ever passed on. So you see you can enjoy the tale of the Jelly Babies, smile at their antics ...... and then forget. Enjoy a glass of wine, walk the dog, relax in a long. hot, bubbly bath, get out your x-box, your i-pad or your kindle, do whatever it is that floats your boat ..... but please forget. Look into my eyes ..... you are feeling very sleepy ........ count to three and when I snap my fingers all thoughts of Jelly Babies will be erased from your mind forever. Or will they? If I pass by the Botanics after closing time and I see folk climbing the gates, tunnelling under the walls, vaulting the fences, then I know I have failed.  But just pause for a moment and imagine a world without Jelly Babies, a world where these loveable little creatures are no more. Look at these pictures. Do they not tug at your heart-strings, bring a tear to your eye, have you sobbing into your hankie at the thought of these sweet little people -  for people they are - joining the ranks of the extinct and the defunct? Then leave them to enjoy their moments of freedom, leave them to play in peace .... and save my head from the inevitable onslaught of deadly cones if this story gets out!!!

We shall remember them ........

"When you go home tell them of us and say: for your tomorrow we gave our today." The Kohima Epitaph, so few words yet words that say so much. At eleven o'clock as the chimes of Big Ben ring out across the land, the world falls silent. On this day we remember, as one, the sacrifice made by so many, a sacrifice that continues to this very day and will continue well into the future. Young men full of hopes and dreams, their journey through life just beginning, only to be tragically cut short fighting for their country, for freedom and for the right to live life without torture, without imprisonment and without oppression. As we stand, heads bowed in silence, all around is still. For a brief moment the traffic pauses, conversation lies resting upon the lips, the hustle and bustle of everyday life ceases. The only sounds to be heard are birds singing in the trees, the gentle cry of a baby too young to understand, the barking of a dog in some distant garden. Each year we give two minutes of our time to remember, two minutes from our lives to remember those who no longer have two minutes to give. Pain is etched on the faces of the veterans, a pain we cannot understand nor begin to feel. Tears trickle from eyes that have witnessed the horror of war, a horror no man should have to behold, a horror no man, or indeed woman, should have to live through. So many friends lost, so many families torn apart, and yet it continues. The blood of our young people is shed on foreign soil, the grief goes on, the list of the fallen grows ever longer. And every year wreaths of poppies will adorn our memorials, standards will be lowered, prayers will be offered up ... and the list of conflicts will increase. Memories stay with us, however sad, however hard to bear, hearts will be broken time and again as they have since time began. A letter, a photo, a medal are all that remain to keep these memories alive ...... but keep them we must. The past paves the way for the future, but this path may not always be easy to follow.
Every November, in towns, villages and cities across the country, we remember in our own way. We gather at war memorials, in churches, in Gardens of Remembrance, each one of us touched in some way by the sacrifice of so many men and women. Look upon the Field of Remembrance in the heart of Edinburgh, cast your eyes upon the simple crosses, each with a poppy in its centre, laid out in row after row. There are around 11,000 symbols of remembrance here, dedicated by members of the public in honour of past and present members of the Armed Forces. Such an unique display of both individual and community remembrance, every cross bears a personal hand-written message, a regiment, maybe a photo. So many crosses, so many poppies, yet this is just a drop in the ocean, just a handful of names in a rollcall of millions. Leaves freshly fallen from the trees lie amongst these memorials to those fallen in battle. Yet unlike the leaves lying on the ground, leaves that have lived out their natural lives to return again in spring, those named upon the crosses will never live out their natural lives, will never see another spring.
Why, you may wonder, after two World Wars, do we continue to destroy so many lives, devastate many others and bring death to countless innocent men, women and children. Will it ever end? Will lessons never be learnt, will our leaders never listen. How many conflicts have vented their fury upon the earth since 1945? Korea, Suez, the Falkland Islands, Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Kosovo, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan to name but a few ........ From every corner of the globe the futility of war tears the world apart. Those who died in the Great Wars died to protect our freedom, to allow us to live our lives in peace and harmony. Is it not time we began to respect their memory, respect the ultimate sacrifice they made for their country, by making war a thing of the past. It will not be easy, it will never be easy, we may never achieve peace in our lifetime, but we owe it to these brave men and women to try. Their lives should not be lost in vain, yet lives will continue to be lost, we shall continue to mourn ...... I shall leave you with some of the most poignant words to be uttered throughout these days of remembrance, words written by a gentleman called Laurence Binyon, a Red Cross medical orderly on the Western Front, taken from his poem "The Fallen."

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We shall remember them."    
     



A Berry Nice Time in the Gardens ...........

Autumn, a time when I can return to my childhood days without fear of reproach, without that look upon my mother's face which said: "I could tell you to behave but what's the point. You are going to do it anyway." And my crime? Brand new, shiny red wellies just waiting to crunch through the autumn leaves, crackling under foot, and kick them high into the sky. Then with my very best "I'm sorry but I am a little girl and this is what little girls like me do at this time of the year" I would giggle to myself as my poor mother apologised profusely to the elderly gentleman with the well-used broom who had spent the last hour sweeping up the leaves. And then of course there were the puddles. Brand new, shiny red wellies drawn to muddy puddles, splashing, jumping ....... "But mummy, this is what little girls like me do when the rain is kind enough to leave such wonderful puddles. After all, mud washes off, and you do want me to make the most of my brand new, bright shiny wellies. Feet grow so fast, you know, so I really must get plenty of use out of them while I can ....."

How beautiful are the Royal Botanic Gardens as autumn takes a firm grip. Mosaics of gold, red, green and brown pepper the lawns and adorn the flower beds as summer leaves this colourful month to momentarily delay the onset of winter. To many plants autumn is a beginning and not an end, a time for them to rear their heads and challenge the spectacular blooms of summer, to declare they too can be colourful, splashing the landscape with their own autumnal shades. Deciduous conifers add to the stunning swathes of colour, their needles shifting through the seasons as suble as the changes on an artist's palette. Larch trees hold a mellow shade of yellow until their needles give in to winter's beckoning and fall to the ground. Summer-flowering heathers defy autumn and hang on until the cold fades their blossom and they sleep, awaiting the return of the warming sun. Drowsy insects slowly flit from flower to flower, gathering the last of nature's nectar, attracted by those still holding fast in defiance of the long winter days ahead.
Berries and fruits, they are what autumn is about. Adorning the trees and bushes like decorations on a Christmas tree, clustering in groups, brightly coloured in hues of red, yellow, gold and black. Rowns, whitebeams, blackberries, tempting the birds and the animals, warning them of a harsh winter, enticing them to fill their larders while there is still time. Small, succulent, pecked by birds, picked by squirrels, nature's supermarket bursting with goodies to survive the days ahead. Falling leaves, carpets of gold and red, spectacular displays of berries in a watery sun hanging low in the sky - this is what autumn is all about. Conkers bouncing from horse chestnut trees, acorns leaving the safety of their "egg cups" to be snapped up by sqirrels seeking a meal or two, holly berries awaiting fame on the front of a Christmas card - oh yes, they are all here in the Botanics, an ever-changing landscape changing yet again. New life replaces old, colours shift like the tides of the sea, the weather weaves its magic and another corner of the Gardens holds you spellbound as you wander, hat, scarf and gloves firmly in place to discover a tree, a flower, a bush you may have missed before.
Yes, autumn is well and truly in situ at the Royal Botanic Gardens. Forgive all the pictures, but I had to share some of the beauty abundant in one of my favourite places, a wonderland to rival all others, a living exhibition of colour framed by the world around it. Where better to walk on a crisp, autumn day ........... And yes, I do still crunch through the leaves and kick them high into the air. And yes, I very definitely still jump into puddles, more effective now there is more weight behind my landing! Pure childish fun. Second childhood? No, I'm well past that. Must be my third? fourth? fifth? .........   
 



Greyfriars Bobby ........ fact or fiction

The touching story of Greyfriars Bobby, the devoted Skye terrier about whom so much has been written, has always been the subject of much speculation. A tale as loved as the little dog himself, have the years seen the imagination add fiction to fact, the odd embellishment tucked in to keep the legend going and ensure visitors still flock to the statue of Edinburgh's favourite pet and stand awhile at his grave? One thing is for certain, and that is that records show Greyfriars Bobby was a real dog who lived and died in the city. So this is his story as I understand it. Others may not agree ......
It was 1850 when gardener John Gray, together with his wife Jess and son John, arrived in Edinburgh. Unable to find work as a gardener and wishing to avoid life in the workhouse, John Gray joined the Edinburgh Police Force as a night watchman. The long, cold winter nights were lonely, so John found himself a companion to keep him company through the hours of darkness. Enter stage left a diminutive Skye terrier called Bobby. The two of them soon became a familiar sight walking the cobbled streets of the city, Bobby trotting happily beside his master. However, years on the streets, out in all weathers, took their toll on John and he eventually died of tuberculosis on 15th February 1858. Buried in Greyfriars kirkyard, it was soon evident that he would not be left alone with little more than a headstone marking his final resting place.
Faithful to the end, Bobby was lost without his best friend and master. He touched the hearts of local residents when he refused to leave his master's grave despite all the Scottish weather could throw at him. The gardener and keeper of Greyfriars kirkyard tried time and again to evict Bobby, but to no avail. The little dog had no intention of leaving. So, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Admitting defeat, he provided a shelter for Bobby by placing sacking beneath two tablestones that lay beside the grave, and there, so the story goes, the determined Skye terrier made his home. His fame soon spread across the city. Crowds would gather at the entrance to the kirkyard awaiting the sounding of the one o'clock gun echoing across Edinburgh from the Castle. This was the signal for Bobby to leave his post and follow local joiner and cabinet maker William Dow to the same coffee house he had frequented with the now dead John Gray. Suitably refreshed, he would then return to his lonely vigil, keeping watch with his head resting silently on his paws.
1867 saw a new by-law passed in Edinburgh which required all dogs to be licensed or destroyed. What would happen to Bobby now? Would he be spared? The Lord Provost of Edinburgh, a certain Sir William Chambers, knew of the little dog and decided to pay Bobby's licence himself. The Skye terrier had been spared, and was presented with a collar bearing a brass inscription: "Greyfriars Bobby from the Lord Provost, 1867, licenced." For fourteen years the faithful dog remained loyal to his master and kept constant watch over the grave. And the kind folk of the city took good care of him until he finally died in 1872. Baroness Angelia Georgina Burdett-Coutts, President of the Ladies Committee of the RSPCA, was so moved by the story of Bobby that she asked the City Council for permission to erect a granite fountain in his memory, an octagonal lower drinking basin for dogs, an upper spout for humans, and a statue of the Skye terrier sat on top. This can still be seen today, although public health concerns saw the water supply discontinued in 1957. And so the memory of Greyfriars Bobby lives on, now buried beside the grave of his beloved  master.
This story has been challenged many times by many people. The ownership of the poor little dog has been disputed. Was it John Gray night watchman, or another John Gray, a local farmer. Was Bobby no more than a cemetery or graveyard dog, a stray fed by visitors and curators to the point where he knew he was on to a good thing and made his home here. Thus people would come to believe the dog was watching over a grave and continue to feed him. There are others who believed the original Bobby died in 1867 and was thence replaced by a younger dog. Bobby had, after all, drawn people to the kirkyard and proved more than a little lucrative for businesses around Greyfriars. No dog, no more money ..... And me? There is a real need for such wonderfully heartwarming stories, tales of love and devotion, undying loyalty and genuine kindness. So I say leave it alone. The legend will continue, Bobby will attract visitors for many years to come, reliving his story from beyond the grave. What harm can a few inaccuracies - if indeed there are any - really do to a delightful snippet of Edinburgh history. Life is hard enough without destroying what little comfort we can draw from such a lovely tale as this. "Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all." These words are written on Bobby's headstone. So critics, cynics and non-believers lay off. Long live Greyfriars Bobby say I!!!  

Beadnell Limekilns ....... and more ......

Beadnell, a delightful village on the coast of Northumberland, has a stunning shoreline which at times is as wild as it can be calm and peaceful. Pounded by waves whipped up by high winds, white horses rush for the beach, riding the crests of the waves before breaking upon the rocks or hurling themselves against the sea wall. This is the sea at its magnificent best, a time to admire from afar, to fear and respect in equal measure. I love it. And when the storms abate, a tranquil, more sedate ocean laps the coast, gently touching the rocks with salty kisses before sprinkling splashes of white around dune and rock.
Beadnell, an ancient village, was in all probability established in Saxon times. Bronze Age burial chambers have been found along the shore, and the remains of an ancient chapel were discovered in 1853 on the headland of Ebb's Nook. Excavations suggested that the building erected on this spot was dedicated to St. Ebba shortly after the arrival of
Christianity in Northumberland. For a small place, Beadnell has an interesting history. During the 18th century, the popular Beadnell races took place along the sands. However, tragedy struck in 1794 when one of the riders was killed, and the races were no more. Sandstone and coal seams run out to sea, and mining took place here until early Victorian times when seemingly more lucrative activities came to the fore.
By the 19th century, Beadnell was an important fishing village. A century earlier it had the unenviable - or maybe enviable - reputation of being a first class resort for smugglers. One of their secret hideouts, a hidden vault, was disovered on the Farne Islands during the restoration of the Chapel of St. Cuthbert. A wonderful haul was seized by customs officers on a particularly eventful September day in 1762 - though not for the unfortunate Scottish smugglers involved - when they stumbled upon 2,700 gallons of brandy, 400 gallons of rum, 23 hogsheads of wine and some tea, presumably for the hangover!!
You want more fascinating facts? Of course you do. Beadnell has the only west-facing port on the east coast of England. Cool eh ..... Limestone is also present around the village, and to exploit this profitable commodity, the first kilns were built here in 1747. Next problem? Exporting this commodity. To facilitate this, the harbour was built. Limekilns needed coal to operate. Hey presto, coal seams were also present in Beadnell. And so it grew in importance, this quiet little village. Fishing was also rapidly expanding, the exporting of fish and lime as well as salt made a better harbour a neccessity, and by 1798 the pier had been built and a gentleman by the name of Richard Pringle found this an ideal spot on which to construct his limekiln. However, herring fishing was set to overtake lime in importance and Beadnell fast became the main herring fishing village on the north-east coast. In fact, so the story goes, one thousand fishermen entered the harbour one evening in 1828 to shelter from a storm. 1822 had seen the decline of the poor old limekilns, by this time used to cure herring. Today they have been rescued and restored by the National Trust and are used as stores by the local fishermen.
I love it here in Beadnell, stormy skies, angry waves, howling winds, Mother Nature showing just why she is in charge of our world and not ourselves as we would often like to believe. Wander among the sand dunes, stretching as far south as the eye can see, wonder at the power of the sea, feel the wind in your hair, taste the saltiness of the water clinging to your lips. Then pop along to the Craster Arms for a lovely meal and well-deserved drink. This friendly inn was once Beadnell Tower, a three-storeyed pele-tower built in the 16th century. And much of the original building still survives - the vaulted basement now used as a beer cellar, the remains of the newel staircase which led to the next floor, an old fireplace on the ground floor, and the walls which in places are eight feet thick. When you are suitably refreshed take a turn around the village. Discover the Beadnell Tower Hotel - a former granary - the chapel on the green originally built in 1740 and rebuilt in 1860 ..... go see it all for yourself. My fingers need a rest, they are not as nimble as they once were, so it is over to you .........        

Halloween ..........

 Halloween .... a hauntingly crazy evening full of spooky fun and ghostly goings-on is fast approaching. But what are the origins of this festival, an occasion which has grown in popularity over the years and which is celebrated across the globe, not solely in Christian countries as many seem to think. Halloween is indeed a time not just of celebration but of superstition, marking the closing of the door on autumn and the opening of the door to winter. Many believe it has its origins in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, bringing the harvest to a close and heralding the onset of the dark winter months. This was seen as a time when spirits could enter our world with ease, a time when they were at their most active. It was said that souls of the dead came to revisit their earthly homes, and feasts were held at which these souls, spirits of dead family members, were invited to attend. A place would be set at the table for these ghostly beings to "partake" of the meal. Many people would dress up and light bonfires in the belief that these actions would ward off roaming ghosts. The 8th century saw Pope Gregory III designate November 1st as a holiday to honour the memory of all saints and martyrs - All Saints Day - and many of the traditions of Samhain were incorporated into this festival. The night before became known as All Hallows Eve, or Halloween, a name originating from the Scottish dialect. As the centuries passed, Halloween evolved into a secular, community-based event associated with child-friendly activities. Trick-or-treat, carving pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns, apple bobbing, creepy stories, dressing up .... all are now popular as darkness falls and the witching hour approaches.

I recently came across the legend surrounding jack-o-lanterns, an interesting little tale. Travelling home after a night of drinking, a somewhat tipsy rogue called Jack encountered the devil. This satanic inmate from the fiery depths of hell tricked Jack into climbing a tree. Why? No idea. But a quick-thinking Jack, despite his intoxication, carved the sign of the cross into the bark of the tree, thus trapping the devil. Crafty Jack then struck a deal with Satan, making him promise that he would never capture or claim his soul. Then Jack went on his way convinced he was safe for all eternity. However, after a debauched life of sin, drink and mendacity poor old Jack was refused entry into heaven, the pearly gates well and truly slammed in his face. Keeping his promise, the devil likewise refused Jack entry into hell, throwing a live coal straight from the fires of his kingdom at the hapless Jack. It was a cold night, so Jack placed the burning coal into a hollowed-out turnip to stop it going out. And from that day onwards Jack has roamed the earth with his lantern, looking for a place to rest. Impressed? Thought you would be. So keep your eyes peeled for a flickering flame drifting across the fields ......

Off you go, all you witches and wizards, ghosts, skeletons, vampires, werewolves, black cats and other assorted monsters. Bring out your bats, search out your spiders, cotton wool your cobwebs and bound along on your broomsticks. But beware the churchyard, the gravestones cold and grey in the moonlight, piercing red eyes peering out through the darkness. Oh yes, people, feel a breeze where there is no wind, a touch on the shoulder from an unseen hand, shadows falling where no person stands, whispers in the darkness, the hoot of an owl, the spine-tingling howl of a wolf lurking in the shelter of the woods. 'Tis Halloween, not for the faint-hearted, the nervous, the unbelievers ....... Bob your apples, paint your faces, carve your pumpkins, sit around the fire recounting tales to send shivers down the spine as smoke wends its way eerily into the night sky. For this is no ordinary evening. IT IS HALLOWEEN!!  



Blackhall St Columba's Church

 Blackhall St. Columba's Church was born on 4th March 1900, today a beautiful yet simple building exuding an air of calm and tranquility beside a busy main road. The creation of this wonderful place of worship was made possible through the efforts and generosity of the minister and congregation of Cramond Parish Church. Why Cramond? Blackhall lay partly within the Cramond Parish boundary and was in the process of being developed as a suburb of Edinburgh. The original church was of the old "iron church design" and its rapidly growing congregation soon rendered it too small for its needs. The result? Plans for a new church were drawn up in 1902 by Glasgow architect, a Mr P MacGregor, a gentleman who had connections with Iona Abbey Church. It is no surprise, then, that the design of Blackhall St. Columba's bore more than a passing resemblance to Iona. Building began in 1903, the new church dedicated on 28th May 1904.
But once again, the congregation soon outgrew the church.
The plans had been for a church to seat 500 people. They had, however, included the possibility of adding an extension to accommodate 900 if necessary. And it was. The district continued to expand, and the early 1930s saw the addition of the south aisle, session room, gallery and choir room, all dedicated in 1935. And if you look in the wall at the foot of the south aisle, close to the vestry door, you will see a large piece of stone from Iona Abbey Church. Set in the wall outside the session room is another piece showing a Celtic Cross. At various places within the church and vestibule you can spot texts from the Bible carved into the stone walls. Read them and reflect .....
One of my favourite features of this church is the decorative stone font, situated in the north aisle, bearing the inscription "Suffer the little ones to come unto me." On top of this font stands the Cross of Monte Cassino. Made by a soldier during World War II for a "tented church" it was brought to St. Columba's by an army chaplain. It's longer than normal crossbar bears witness to the style of cross more often associated with the marking of a soldier's grave. The organ, too, is of great historical significance. Purchased from Greyfriars Kirk in 1932, it had been built by David Hamilton in 1865 and was reputed to have been the very first organ ever to have been used in the Church of Scotland. So this makes it the original "kist fu' o' whistles". What a wonderfully musical phrase, almost echoing the sound of this superb instrument. Patched up over the years and reaching the end of its playing career, it was decided, in 2002, to investigate options for replacement or refurbishment. Hence the new organ, built by Sandy Edmonstone of Forteviot, in a case designed by Derek Watson-Griggs, was dedicated on 10th September 2006. It is truly beautiful to behold. And, I am told, equally as amazing to hear in full flow.
Also stunning, again in a simplistic way, are the seven stained glass windows. Six were donated by the Croall family as a memorial to Robert Croall of Craigcrook Castle who passed away in 1898. The two windows in the apse represent Bread and Wine, echoed in the carving along the top edge of the communion table. The three windows above the arch depict the Crucifixion, whilst the sixth, in the north aisle, shows Mary with the baby Jesus. The final window, situated in the vestibule, is an abstract depiction of Christ. This was designed by a Japanese stained glass artist, Yoshiro Oyama, living in Blackhall, who generously gifted the window to the congregation in 2004. I could go on forever about this delightful church, the lectern falls telling of Noah and his sending of the dove from the Ark, the pulpit falls which change with the seasons of the Church, the wall hangings, the embroidered outline of the Church - but I won't. Go to St. Columba's yourself and see this jewel in the crown of the Church of Scotland.

 

St. Bernard's Well

St. Bernard's Well, picturesque, tranquil, standing in a deep valley with green woodland stretching upwards on either side, the Water of Leith flowing timelessly beneath. Its legendary mineral waters have been sourced from here for centuries, wealthy holiday makers visiting Edinburgh to partake of the waters especially in the late 1700s and the 1800s when such things were deemed popular. Nobility and gentry took summer quarters in the Dean Valley, drinking from the well and taking in the country air. Various claims were made about its medicinal properties, many believing a cure for arthritis, backache and even total blindness could be found in the acrid water. Participants described the taste as having the "odious twang of hydrogen gas" or like the "washings from a foul gun barrel." One J. Taylor MD claimed in 1790 that the waters could cure "scorbutic cases, hysterics and hypochondriacs, joint complaints arising from congestion, scrophulous complaints, nephritic complaints and viscid glairy mucus, impotency and all the diseases of a lax
and weak fibre." Charming!
So how did all this begin? It is said that the well was named after St. Bernard of Clairvaux, founder of the Cistercian Order. Badly received at court and suffering from sickness, he went to live in a cave nearby. Attracted to the mineral spring by the sound of visiting birds, he drank of the healing waters until his strength returned. And according to local legend - a wonderful thing, local legend - the spring was "rediscoverd" in 1760 by three lads from Heriot's Hospital who were fishing on the banks of the Water of Leith. That same year things really began to look up for the well. The spring was roofed over by its owner, the eccentric judge Lord Gardenstone. He spent two years overseas during the 1780s for health reasons - and then found a far better tonic at home. In 1789 he commissioned Alexander Naysmith to design a new pump-house for the spring. Inspired by the Temple of Sybil at Tivoli, the open rotunda was supported by ten tall Doric order columns. Within this "temple" was a statue of Hygeia, Greek goddess of health and hygiene, built of Coade stone, a type of ceramic which soon became damaged. It was later replaced by one of Craigleith sandstone. During Doors Open Days you can visit the interior of the pump-room, elaborately decorated with beige and terracotta mosaics on the floor and walls, and a beautiful domed ceiling speckled with golden stars and a golden radiating sun. A single coloured glass window, a small stove, and the white marble pump on which is carved "Bibendo Valebis" - by drinking you will become well - complete the picture.
So popular was St. Bernard's Well that Lord Gardenstone  employed a custodian, George Murdoch, to receive money, provide glasses and ensure the many regulations were observed. He was in attendance between 6.00am and 9.00am, the potency of the water considered to be at its strongest in the early morning. The well was extensively renovated in 1887 by William Nelson, its then owner, employing the services of fashionable decorative artist Thomas Bonnar. D. W. Stevenson carved a new statue of Hygeia, and the lower terrace was laid out. The Well was then gifted to Edinburgh City Council to be used by everyone. And it has recently undergone yet another much needed restoration.   
Today, as you walk along the Water of Leith towards St. Bernard's Well, there are occasions when you can still detect the dull metallic smell of the spring. But this is a pleasant spot, a charming spot, stunning on a bright summer's day. But many say the best time to visit is an hour after a torrential downpour. Rainwater from the Pentlands thunders through the channels under the Dean Bridge and the well is at its atmospheric best. As it is in the moonlight, after a fall of snow, standing tall against a deep blue sky, imprisoned by storm clouds ...... anytime, I guess. So serene, so beautiful, yet so deceptive. Taste the waters? Take a chance on their healing powers? No, I don't think so. Not me. Paracetamol does the job just fine.



John Knox House

John Knox House, another of Edinburgh's wonderfully historic buildings that has sparked countless debates as to its past. Did this fire-brand preacher, after whom it is named, ever live here? Many believe the strong Catholic connections of the house would have rendered this highly improbable. Others say he lived here for a few months during the siege of Edinburgh Castle and believe he may even have died here. I guess we shall never truly know .... Ironically one thing that is beyond doubt is that when John Knox was at the very pinnacle of his fame, the owner of this house was very much on the opposite side of the political debate as goldsmith to Mary, Queen of Scots. It is certainly one of the oldest houses in Edinburgh, and its connection with John Knox has undoubtedly saved it from demolition on more than one occasion.
Although parts of the house date back to 1470, it was mostly built in the mid-1500s. On the ground floor you can still see the remnants of medieval locked booths or "luckenbooths" once rented out to other merchants by house owner James Mossman. It could be said this was Edinburgh's very first shopping centre. Despite its atmospheric rooms complete with wood panelling and painted ceilings, their sense of history, of being somehow at the forefront of the Reformation, it is the exterior of John Knox House that gives it such a romantic image. Timber galleries project out from the first floor, and forestairs give access directly into the upper rooms from the street below. But beware .... the seventh step is slightly higher than the rest. Why? To trip up any intruders creeping up them, especially at night. At the corner of the building, between the ground and first floor, can be seen a figure of Moses kneeling upon a sundial. Next to him is an image of the sun inscribed upon which are the Greek, Latin and English words for God. Originally there would have been  a miniature pulpit below him, creating a picture pertaining to John Knox preaching.
John Knox House has an interesting history. Owned by one Walter Reidpath, it was later conveyed by his daughter to her son John Arres. Mariota Arres and her husband James Mossman, a wealthy goldsmith, acquired the house in 1556 and adapted the building to their own tastes. Their initials and coat of arms decorate the outside of the house to this day, together with the biblical inscription "Luve God abuve al and yi nychtbour as yi self." And this is when things really begin to
heat up. A confirmed Catholic and ardent supporter of Mary,
Queen of Scots, Mossman soon became embroiled in the religious turmoil of the times. Mary was forced to abdicate in favour of her baby son, James VI, who was to be brought up in the Presbyterian faith. Fearing for the loss of his exalted position and wealth under this new regime, Mossman joined a revolt which took Edinburgh Castle in Mary's name. Although this revolt ultimately failed, the rebels managed to hold on to the Castle for three years before being forcibly removed and executed as traitors. Poor James Mossman. In 1571 he had lost all his possessions, was sacked from his position as Master of the Royal Hunt, and charged with treason. But worse was to come. Following the surrender of Mary's supporters in 1573, he was arrested, dragged on a cart from Holyrood to the Merkat Cross, hung, quartered, and beheaded.
Strange events were to ensue in 1840. The tenement next to John Knox House suddenly and inexplicably split in two. It was said that this bizarre occurence exposed the residents inside eating their breakfast. Hmm ..... The future of the entire site was in jeopardy, but such was the outcry from antiquarians and the Church that the scale of the destruction was scaled back. When the New Town was built, the area had become run down, degenerating into what can only be described as slum accommodation. In the 1800s there would have been at least one family, if not more, living in each room of John Knox House. And bear in mind that at this time, families usually consisted of 8 - 10 children, so overcrowding was a very real problem. The mid-1800s saw the reconstruction of the house, and it opened as a museum in 1853, run by the Free and United Free Churches of Scotland, and subsequently by the Church of Scotland itself.
So what of John Knox himself? For those of you a little hazy as to his background, he was ordained as a priest into the Roman Catholic religion but became disillusioned with the Catholic faith, feeling the shortcomings of this Church and being drawn to the ideas and teachings of the reformed religion. One of the main movers and shakers behind the abdication of Mary, he firmly believed a king brought up a Presbyterian would be more beneficial to Scotland. He was a great orator with the power to influence the common people with his preaching. Tradition dictates that a small window on the first floor of John Knox House was once used by Knox, leaning out to preach to the people in the street below. If you visit the house, the view down the Royal Mile from this window is simply stunning ... one of the best you will find. So go along, see for yourself, walk in the footsteps - or maybe not ... of one of Scotland's most famous religious fanatics.
 

Birthdays ......

Older and wiser ..... that's what they say, don't they ..... older and wiser. Another birthday, another grey hair, another wrinkle embedding itself on your face when you're not looking. Where does time go, and when did it gather momentum, each year now passing in the blinking of an eye. When all is quiet I sit and listen to the clock ticking, listen to the seconds passing, counting each one as if saying it aloud will somehow make time slow down. But it doesn't, does it. The days, the weeks, the years continue to roll on, stretching on into the future, reeling it in until the end comes ever closer. That's the good thing about digital clocks - no incessant tick tock, no marking the loss of another moment, a moment never to be retrieved, never to be taken again.
On occasions I sit back and think, drawing from the past to make the present more bearable. Memories are a wonderful thing. No-one can change them, no-one can take them away from you. They are yours for all eternity, to lock deep within your heart, a treasure to which only you have the key. I guess all our lives are a roller coaster, a ride on which there are times we wish to stay on and others when we wish to jump off. For some of us life is a constant challenge, a battle of wits, a race in which we clear one obstacle only for another to take its place. We solve one problem, allow ourselves a smug smile, a moment of elation, and then plop! Another one drops in our lap. Often I feel the need to scream out "Give me a break, I'm doing my best". Life is no rehearsal, it's the real thing. Just wish there was more time to practise, more time for a dummy run before facing it head on. Still, another year has passed and I am still here.
Okay, so now pull yourself together, take a deep breath .... and smile. Stop complaining young lady - or maybe that should be "not so young." Three wonderful children and four equally gorgeous grandchildren make life worthwhile, keep me as young as it is possible to be kept. Life is not so bad I suppose. A few creaking bones, the odd ache and pain where yesterday there were none, a little forgetful - no, very forgetful, sorry I forgot - a little more time needed to tackle the stairs ..... but life is still with me, still to be enjoyed, smiled at, embraced. Occasionally it does you good to take a step back, look around and be thankful for all you have. Every breath should be savoured, every new day greeted with hope and confidence - hope for the future and confidence that you can face that future whatever it may hold. So I'm getting a little rusty - but only a little - and the mirror is now for passing, no longer for stopping and admiring. Maybe the odd nip and tuck might not go amiss, a helping hand removing boobs from knees and putting back firmly where they belong, a little more make-up, a little less flashing thigh ...... But hey, I'm me. Another year older, a little battle-scarred in places, a little slower maybe, but that's how it is. Sense of humour still in place, wonderful friends, wonderful family, plenty to get hold off ....... This is me, at least for another year. So take me or leave me but please don't burst my bubble. My mum and dad gave me my bubble, filled it with love and set it free. Now it floats along beside me, they take my hand when things get tough, and so life goes on. Happy birthday to me xxx   

Dean Gardens ...... Beautiful in the Autumn

Simply stunning ...... summer gradually giving way to autumn, colours slowly changing from green to golden brown, a hazy sun collecting the remnants of one glorious season and sprinkling them amidst the opening of another. I grasped another opportunity afforded by Doors Open Days and soaked up the heady atmosphere of perhaps my favourite time of year and wandered through Dean Gardens.
Dean Gardens, one of Edinburgh's largest private gardens and one of only four "pleasure grounds" to border the equally picturesque Water of Leith, covers more than seven acres. Planted slopes run down to levelled lawns, pathways lead to delightful viewpoints overlooking the Dean Valley. These well-tended lawns, the snaking pathways, and the wooden pavilion cling to a layout virtually unchanged from the original Victorian era plans. An impressive children's play area has replaced the former tennis court, encouraging young families to enjoy the Gardens. Over the years many forest trees were planted, changing the whole character of the Gardens, but today they have become a brighter more open
space. Many of the elm trees and several ageing trees from other species had to be removed, allowing daylight to spread across this beautiful area bringing the countryside into the city centre.
Unlike many of Edinburgh's green spaces, the lungs of a thriving city, membership of Dean Gardens is by application rather than address. And many take advantage of this. Calm, peaceful, an area to rest, relax, read a book, enjoy a lovely walk between the West End and Stockbridge, absorb an air of tranquility with your dog for company and marvel at your surroundings. See the weir pounding into the Water of Leith, follow the river on its journey, sit and admire St. Bernard's Well, walk among the trees and flowers in the footsteps of so many before you. And look up at the feat of engineering that is Dean Bridge (Telford's Bridge) as you stroll beneath its mighty arches.
So how did Dean Gardens come into being? They were founded in the 1860s by a group of nearby residents. Their initial aim was to improve the "bank", a steep slope used for the grazing of sheep, an eyesore peppered with building debris. The original work, including the acquisition of additional land, took over ten years. And in a more than impressive undertaking, almost £1.8 million in today's money was raised through public subscriptions, modest bank loans and fund-raising events to cover this work. If you get the chance to visit these Gardens, please do. It is well worth it.   

Guess what I found .........

Seldom do I find myself in the vicinity of Edinburgh's wonderful Botanic Gardens without spending a few hours wandering its paths, admiring the splendour that is Mother Nature at her very best. But today, some mysterious force was beckoning to me, the promise of something special guiding my footsteps through the gates and onwards across the manicured lawns. Autumn had just begun to touch the leaves, shades of gold and brown gently encroaching onto a world of green. Flowers reflected the slowly changing seasons, grasping the watery sunshine that belies the onset of cooler weather, colourful blooms heralding the arrival of September and the gradual demise of summer.
And then I saw them, lurking in the undergrowth, unexpected, unannounced, a blot on the beauty of the Botanics - a cluster of hosepipus rubberium hiding beneath the mighty pines. What an intrusion into one of my favourite places, what impertinence to dare think they belong amongst such horticultural perfection, such elegance ......
Hosepipus rubberium, an unsightly yellow in colour, thin, coiled, as welcome in these gardens as the serpent in the Garden of Eden and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the same. I had to photograph these interlopers, these brazen invaders into the peace and tranquility of this natural paradise. And imagine my horror at encountering another of these scars on the landscape, these pimples on a perfect skin, snaking its way towards the greenhouses, slithering up the stonework, sucking the moisture from the very earth which gives sustenance to so many plants of real beauty. Jealousy? Probably. Hideous hosepipus rubberium, spitting out water like venom from the jaws of a snake, enticing true trees and flowers into a false sense of security. "Let me water you, let me help you grow and flourish" they smirk .... and then they pounce, winding their sinewy bodies around delicate stems and tender shoots. Oh yes, don't let them fool you. They may look innocent, harmless, curled motionless on the grass. But they are not!!
You will rarely see them breeding in the open, preferring the
sanctity of the garden centre. But breed they do, once the
problem of discovering which end is which has been overcome. Maybe the time has come for a cull of the hosepipus rubberium. Slaughter them? No, not even the hosepipus rubberium deserves a fate this cruel and calculated. I advocate blocking both ends with straw and superglue while they are sleeping. Now try and copulate!!
Mad? Not me. I have encountered the hosepipus rubberium in the wild and lived to tell the tale. Keep your eyes peeled, your wits about you ....... And they don't just come in yellow, oh no. They are evolving, becoming crafty, developing camouflage. Yes indeed. Some of them are green!! How sneaky is that.