The Sir Walter Scott Memorial—Drunks at Dawn

During our stay in Edinburgh, I would get up at dawn, grab something to eat, and go exploring. One gray and chill spring morning, I hiked across North Bridge, over what used to be North Loch, now the Waverly Train Station, and wandered into Edinburgh’s New Town. I crossed the bridge, skirting the monument in its center, a statue to some Scottish regiment or other, mustachioed helmeted soldiers brandishing flags and weapons for queen and country in some long ago, half-remembered colonial war on the far side of the world. My plan was to see the Sir Walter Scott Memorial, shoot some photos, and in general, take in the ambiance of what has to be one of the ugliest structures I have ever laid eyes on. I had seen the Memorial from a tour bus and noticed it poking above the eastern skyline, but I wanted to see it up close, what may be the finest example of Victorian wretched excess in the whole of the British Isles.

You really can’t miss the Memorial, standing in Princess Gardens, 200 feet tall, and made of locally quarried shale—a bad choice, given that the oil in the shale has migrated to the outside and bonded with decades of coal smoke, making the entire structure soot black. Author Bill Bryson has described it as “looking like a Victorian gothic rocket ship”. He’s right. If the Brits had had a space program in the early 1800’s, Apollo 11 would have gone up in something resembling this, steam-powered and coal-fired.


I think maybe the only thing missing on the space flight would have been the gargoyles. Two in each corner about half way up, they are a bit unexpected. Then again, given Victorian tastes for jim-cracks and jee-jaws, maybe not. I’m sure the Brits would have figured out how to make them retract on re-entry.


I had finished walking around the base and the gleaming white marble statue of Scott himself at the center when two young men came up. They looked a bit rumpled and with the expression drunks have when they are trying to brazen their way along. “I see you’ve got a camera” the dark haired one slurred, “can you take a picture of me and the lad?” “Sure,” I said, “No worries.” The two posed, looking blearily into the camera. I snapped the shutter, they said thanks, and staggered off, holding each other up, zigzagging down the street like a sailboat tacking in a strong head wind. No address, no e-mail, no bloody idea in hell of who they were or what to do with the picture or where to send it. “Oh well,” came a bemused thought dancing around the edges of my brain, “it should make for a good story.” So, my two inebriated gents, if by chance, you happen to see this blog, let me know who and where you are and I’ll be glad to send you a photographic record of our meeting. Lord knows, you won’t remember it yourselves.