Edinburgh in July (4) – Corstorphine Old Parish Church

My maiden name was Herbert, and in the churchyard of the Corstorphine Old Parish church there is a tombstone erected in memory of my great great great grandparents, William Herbert (1776-1828) and Margaret Boyes (1786-1858), and also several other family members whose names are listed. Herberts had been engaged in farming in Corstorphine, on the outskirts of Edinburgh, for several generations. (Before that, they lived in Monmouthshire, in the border country between England and Wales.)

The first time I visited this churchyard was with my parents and younger siblings when I was fifteen. I visited again at the age of twenty-five during my OE; and I went a third time in 1997 when I was in Scotland with Bill and our two children. On these last two visits I went instinctively, unerringly to the church, which is up a side street; and I went with equal confidence to the gravestone.

Ann Herbert at the Herbert family tombstone, Corstorphine Old Parish Church, 1972

Now, in July 2017, I came once again to Corstorphine Old Parish Church, this time to attend the morning service of worship as well as to pay my respects at the gravestone. Perhaps it is because I am aging; or perhaps it is simply that I was tired, near the end of a long overseas trip, but I had to ask directions to the church, and when I got there I could not find the gravestone. I noticed several gravestones lying on their faces and wondered if it was one of these. It was a glorious sunny morning, and since there was still time before the service began, I photographed the exterior of the church, which was founded in 1429.

Corstorphine Old Parish Church, July 2017   Photo: Ann Barrie

The minister was away on holiday with her children, but the congregation had enthusiastically adopted her stand-in, a trainee minister with a magnificent voice; and soon I was mesmerised too. He based his sermon on a passage from one of St Paul’s letters, and near the end of his delivery he commented that he, personally, can’t wait until the day when he can frolic over the hills. I found this poignant because this young man has a badly withered right arm and a pronounced limp.

After the service had finished, I asked permission to photograph the interior of this beautiful church.

Corstorphine Old Parish Church, July 2017   Photo: Ann Barrie

Corstorphine Old Parish Church, July 2017   Photo: Ann Barrie

Corstorphine Old Parish Church, July 2017   Photo: Ann Barrie

Then I joined the congregation for tea and coffee in the parish hall. One of the people I chatted to was an eighty-four-year old man who had been attending this church since he was three and a half years old. Like my late husband, Bill, he was forced to leave school at age fourteen, and, like Bill, he found his two years of national service a great education. He too spent time in Malta, although in his case it was a one-week stopover en route to British Kenya, where the British were engaged in the fight against the Mau Mau.

I mentioned the other purpose for my visit, and one of the church members explained to me that several tombstones had fallen over of their own accord; and others had been laid on their backs for health and safety reasons by the Corstorphine Council which is responsible for the graveyard. There are plans afoot to dig a trench and then stand the fallen tombstones upright again and concrete them into place. This helpful church member used his smartphone to search the graveyard records and identify where the Herbert tombstone would be. Then he kindly led me to the spot. So my visit to Corstorphine Old Parish Church was a happy one from start to finish.

Ann Herbert Barrie at the Herbert family tombstone, Corstorphine Old Parish Church, July 2017

Blog by Ann Barrie

Edinburgh in July (3): St Giles Cathedral and the National Museum

Before I went to Edinburgh in July 2017, I contacted Fiona, a friend from my church back in Wellington. Fiona had been back in Scotland for nearly a year caring for her elderly mother who lives down in the border country. We arranged to meet up in Edinburgh and attend a concert at St Giles Cathedral (Fiona is a fine flautist; and she and I have both sung in choirs).  St Giles has an excellent café, and so we ate lunch there first. Fiona chose a baked potato stuffed generously with tuna, and accompanied by salad; and I had soup of the day – mushroom, creamy and delicious – served from a crockpot.

St Giles has a full programme of free lunchtime concerts, but in July the cathedral is crazy busy, swarming with tourists who can buy “permission to take photographs” passes for £2. Perhaps this is why they indulge in some extraordinary behaviour. During the performance by the sweet-voiced Portland Symphonic Girlchoir, a thirty-something woman sauntered back and forth between audience and choir, waving her Smartphone, holding it high above her head, and videoing the choir. Fiona and I both felt frustrated, and I mentally rehearsed a comment I would have liked to have made to the woman but didn't.

Fiona said she could not warm to St Giles, as the interior is very ornate for a Church of Scotland church, and she also wondered why St Giles is termed “Cathedral”, as that is not usual Church of Scotland nomenclature. I said it was the same reason Glasgow has a cathedral – the building was Roman Catholic in its beginnings. (Charles I of Scotland created the diocese of Edinburgh in 1633 with St Giles as its Cathedral. St Giles is one of several Scottish cathedrals retaining the title in recognition of their long heritage of Christian worship). I know what Fiona meant about not being able to warm to St Giles. I couldn’t either, although I like Glasgow Cathedral so much that I used it as the setting for one of the chapters in my novel Deserter.

Afterwards, we visited the Scottish National Museum. This was formed in 2006 with the merger of the Museum of Scotland, which is housed in a modern building, and the Royal Museum, which is in a Victorian building with a magnificent grand central hall of cast iron. The configuration of the newer building is like a castle keep, and this provides ample opportunity to get lost. 

Fiona suggested that we look first at the Lewis chessmen, the group of 12th-century chess pieces, carved in walrus ivory, that were found in a sand bank at Uig, on the Isle of Lewis, in 1831 – it is thought they were probably buried in a sand chamber to protect them. Eleven of the chess pieces are held by the Scottish National Museum, and the rest are at the British Museum. Fiona and I have an equally bad sense of direction, and despite being given clear instructions, we wandered right past the room where the chess pieces were displayed and had to retrace our footsteps and start all over again. 

During our wanderings we paused at the wooden carving of St Andrew, Scotland’s patron saint – St Andrew is carrying his saltire-shaped cross in his left hand and a book in a pouch in his right hand.  

Carving of St Andrew, National Museum of Scotland  Photo: Ann Barrie

We eventually found the Lewis chessmen – they are displayed quite discreetly: 

Lewis Chessmen, National Museum of Scotland   Photo: Ann Barrie

Fiona had recently done an Egyptian archaeology course, and so we visited the temporary exhibition “The tomb”, which is the story of one tomb carved into the desert cliffs near Thebes in around 1290 BC. The tomb was intended as the final resting place of the Chief of Police and his wife, but it was looted and re-used several times over the years. It was excavated in 1857, and was lost again when a village grew up over it. Fiona and I both found the exhibition satisfying: it explored learnings from objects found in this tomb; presented relevant background on religious beliefs; and prompted us to have a conversation about what sustains us spiritually.

We refreshed and sustained ourselves physically in the museum café. 

Fiona McDougal & Ann Barrie at the National Museum of Scotland cafe July 2017

I enjoyed the cake of the day so much that I asked the waitress for the name and ingredients. I have lost the name, but the cake has raspberry jam baked into the top layer, and a fragrant tea flavour in the top layer -- a modern take on Scottish cooking at its best.

Cake of the Day at Naitonal Museum of Scotland cafe  Photo: Ann Barrie

I returned to the National Museum the following day, this time concentrating on Kingdom of the Scots, on the first level, and Scotland a Changing Nation up on the 6th. I retain snippets of what I saw – it's odd what jumps out at you – reinforced by photos I took on my smartphone. For instance, William Buchan, son of John Buchan, 1st Baron Tweedsmuir, author, politician and Governor-General of Canada, said of his father: “In my minds eye I still see him setting off along on one of his great walks … The day is sunny, the spring woods are green … But there is nothing in the day brighter than his eye, nor greener than the hope which, untarnished, has sustained him …” These words made me think of the theologian Lloyd Geering, who is a member of my church.

I couldn't resist visiting the museum café again – the cake of the day this time was poppy seed and lemon:

Cake of the Day, National Museum of Scotland cafe  Photo: Ann Barrie

Blog by Ann Barrie

Edinburgh in July (2) – discombobulated at the Balmoral

During my eleven weeks travelling in Europe in 2017, I occasionally felt melancholic, or, as my late husband would have termed it, ‘discombobbled’. That’s how it was my first afternoon in Edinburgh in mid July. The weather was overcast; the city was swarming with tourists; the contrast with the peaceful Isle of Lewis, from whence I’d just flown, was overwhelming. I felt rushed because the afternoon was already well advanced, and I also felt a little unsure of what I wanted to do – the array of riches on offer, many of which I had experienced before, was overwhelming.

I had in mind that I would enjoy afternoon tea at the Balmoral, formerly the North British Hotel, in the heart of Edinburgh. The North British was built for the North British Railway Company adjacent to their Waverley Station, and it opened in 1902. My late husband, Bill, was a teenaged commis chef here for three years, from 1946 to 1948. He told me and our two children many tales about life in the kitchen of this great hotel.

I took some photos as I approached the hotel.  The clock tower was catching the late afternoon sun, and so I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was as Bill saw it. (In retrospect, perhaps the saltire would not have been flying, but rather the Union Jack – it was so soon after the war, and the Great in Britain needed to be emphasised.)

Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh, clock tower   Photo: Ann Barrie

Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh, front entrance   Photo: Ann Barrie

Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh, view from North Bridge   Ann Barrie

The two kilted concierges at the entrance to the Balmoral were preoccupied with explaining to a group of Asian tourists that the Number One restaurant was not open at this moment, but they would be welcome to return at the dinner hour. A young man, smiling and friendly, perhaps a concierge in training, approached me and, when I asked about afternoon tea, explained that I was perhaps too late, but I could enquire at the hotel’s Palm Court restaurant, which was through the swing doors ahead.

The Palm Court was almost deserted; it was clearly the end of the afternoon service. A waiter glided up to me – I think he was Italian – and explained that it was too late for a full afternoon tea, but he would be happy to arrange tea and scones for me upstairs. I told him my husband had worked at this hotel as a commis chef when it was the North British. The waiter did not understand the significance of this – why should he? – but he smiled most charmingly and said there was a different name now, but it was the same hotel. I asked how much the full afternoon tea cost, and he said, 'Thirty-seven pound fifty.' He must have thought I looked alarmed, because he added, 'But it is like a meal in itself.' 

The Palm Court is clearly somewhere to celebrate a special occasion – in the company of another – and one day I will return. But that day, although longing for a cup of tea, and a little lightheaded with hunger, I decided against going upstairs for a solitary snack. Instead, I walked the short distance to Patisserie Valerie, on North Bridge. The cakes in the window were too sweet and fancy for my taste, but inside there was plainer fare available. The waiting staff, who were attentive and courteous, served me a good pot of Darjeeling tea, together with two scones, clotted cream and raspberry jam, for £6.50. I wondered as I paid whether I should have left a tip. The situation varies from country to country. In the United States it is important to leave a tip, because it is built into the wage structure; in France, by contrast, I might round up the bill, leave the small change.

Feeling fortified, I walked to the buildings of the Scottish Parliament Building, which I knew remained open for visitors even during the summer recess. Thwarted at 5.00 pm! The building had just closed for the day, an hour earlier than it would have, had Parliament been in session.

Weary and grumpy, I popped in to the National Gallery of Scotland. What an insult to a magnificent gallery of art! Such places need to be given time, attention and respect. Far better to remember the joyful day I spent at this gallery eight years ago. I decided not to ruin any more experiences, but instead to return to my hotel and have an early night so that my second day in Edinburgh was not spoilt by travel fatigue.              

Bill, Charles and Sarah Barrie in Edinburgh, July 1997  Photo: Ann Barrie

Blog by Ann Barrie