I’ve been in Edinburgh, Scotland for about six days now. This is an interesting space. Pictures and tales will follow in the coming weeks. In the meantime, here’s a little something. We roamed the grounds and ostentatious chambers of the Holyrood castle. Room after room was gilded, plastered, painted, tapestried, gored in red velvet and more. Mary Queen of Scots lived here. Apparently it’s been host to a solid stream of British royalty and ceremony.
Adjacent to the castle is the Holyrood Abbey, which predates the castle by a few centuries. Even though the abbey was destroyed and defiled during religious upheaval, some of the sepulchres and grave plates survived. I was snapping away pictures, searching for the oldest one.
Many were so worn, it was difficult to tell from where they came. It was when I was standing on this one that I realized that these people were bloody wealthy, near the top of one dog pile or another, and here it was, life reduced to some faded words on a slab, which now served strictly as a huge paver.
I’m not sure if there’s a moral here. Don’t stand on dead people? Some legacies don’t transcend the grave? Will have to ponder it a bit more.