The slow march home

 

Subject: The slow march home.

When in the 1960s I travelled to the far side of the world, many of the countries I was fortunate enough to visit, entry was gained by passing alongside many structural icons which reminded me of that little island in the stormy North Sea. The provision of docks, the means for ships to tie up, to be offloaded by cranes manufactured in Belfast and on the Clyde. Colonial Architecture abounded, buildings built to a standard and a style which saw light from the offices of political force that resided in that island, my home.

As a 12 year old boy I had watched, on television, the pageant which was the enabling act in 1952, for that almost unique process which ensures the quiet but respectful continuance of our governance. No storming of a Capital Building by crudely dressed popularism, just a quite tradition which helps us to link the past with the present.

People here are not demonstrating, whipped up by orchestrated comments on Twitter, here a solemn cortège draws passed, a silent procession marching to a slow march, only the sound of the tramp of boots on cobbled streets of old Edinburgh. The crowds pack the spaces, motionless, quiet as church mice hushed in reverence for an old friend.

The Queen had always felt more at home in Scotland, she seemed to like it’s people their gritty resolve, a little old fashioned but a fashion I’m sure she preferred.

Viewers around the world, some more used to Molotov cocktails and the smell of tear-gass when a change of government or leadership is required, must marvel at the sense and the gift we have of community and discipline. The sense of structure and orderliness is a long cherished trait of these islands, even now, as it’s composition is changing so quickly. We must relish that as we go forward into the Reign of Charles the III.