Greyfriars Churchyard, Edinburgh

            Tom Riddle: a name that is nowhere to be seen. I had others in mind, too, but I gave up on those long ago. I look around me: tombstones that are green with lichen and the passage of centuries lie in every direction, offering both hope and disappointment. 

          It is an attractive spot. There is a carpet of lush green grass and many fine elm and birch trees, crooked and denuded, can be seen. A cobblestone path slopes gently downhill from the yellow-hued church towards Candlemaker Row (the street names in Edinburgh’s Old Town have a lot of charm). To the north Edinburgh Castle is visible atop its rocky perch, the Half Moon Battery resembling a massive grey stone drum from this angle. 

          This is Greyfriars Churchyard, which dates back to 1566. Strikingly elaborate tombs and mausoleums line the edges. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that these were “appallingly adorned”; no doubt he was referring to the skeletons, skulls and other symbols of death carved upon the stones. Monuments of historical interest abound. One of these is the death mask of George Buchanan, sixteenth-century historian and tutor to King James VI. The detail is tremendous: he has sagging pouches beneath his eyes, sunken cheeks, a prominent lower lip, and a drooping moustache. The Martyrs’ Monument marks a mass grave of Covenanters, religious dissenters executed in the seventeenth century. 

          Many come here to see the simple tombstone dedicated to Greyfriars Bobby, a local dog so devoted to his master that he pined for fourteen years at his grave. Part of the old city wall can also be seen, running through the cemetery. Built following the catastrophic defeat of the Scots by an English army at Flodden in 1513, it is one of the few remaining sections in Edinburgh. 

          I meet one of the volunteers who keep the grounds so spruce, a chatty and genial elderly man versed in the tales of Greyfriars and the Old Town. Hitler, he claims, spared Edinburgh Castle from bombing during World War Two because he wanted it for himself. He laments the behaviour of drunks and other hooligans who entertain themselves of an evening by pushing tombstones over. Last year alone, there were 24 such cases, he tells me. He points out one such supine headstone, which bears the name of Sir Walter Scott’s father. “It’s a sick society”, he says. In a place so full of history I find it hard to disagree. 

          At last, I find what I was searching for. Beyond the arch in the Flodden Wall, down a muddy slope, in a rain-soaked corner of the graveyard where the castle is hidden from view, are two matching slabs of stone. They are tall and commonplace, side by side on the wall. I hear the voices of children playing outside neighbouring George Heriot’s School, and the sun briefly breaks through the bleak sky to illuminate the inscriptions. It turns out the spelling’s different, but who cares? I have tracked down ‘Thomas Riddell Esq’, Harry Potter’s nemesis.  

Edinburgh's Old Calton Cemetery

          A cough from one of the large side tombs almost makes my heart stop. The man inside is barely visible, hidden by the weed and ivy covered roof and the antiquated stone walls that flank the low entrance. I pity him: the level of despair and hopelessness that drove him to take up residence in a dank chamber housing the dead is unimaginable. I think about talking to him, but then he starts urinating. That decides me against my planned introduction. 

          This encounter is in keeping with the air of decay and neglect in Edinburgh’s Old Calton Cemetery. The masonry is flaking and blackened with age, steps are cracked and walls are crumbling, while moss-covered gravestones lie broken in two. Certain of the spacious, room-like tombs look like repositories for green-tinged rocks and blocks of stone. An empty bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine lies on the floor of one of the cemetery’s architectural gems: the cylinder-shaped tomb of famed Scots philosopher David Hume. A sea of brown leaves and branches is strewn over portions of the ground.

          Still, I love this evocative, centuries old graveyard. Situated a short walk uphill from the east end of Princes Street, the city’s main shopping street, it is an atmospheric spot. The monuments gracing Calton Hill lie just across the road and the glorious skyline of the city’s Old Town is visible to the south. Sounds are few: the occasional bus or car passing outside, the chirping of birds, a distant bagpiper, the homeless man coughing. Nor are there many visitors, at least in January.

          The cemetery is full of fascinating gravestones, which feature macabre carvings of skeletons, skulls and bones, as well as less morbid images, such as angels, a three-mast ship and a pair of symmetrical bare-breasted women clutching books.   There are also wonderful inscriptions, one of which is dedicated to an 18th century actor. His tombstone was, we read, ‘re-erected by a few gentlemen’ who felt his ‘last resting-place should not be forgotten’.

          There are unlikely treasures to be found here. As you climb the steep steps beyond the entrance a towering dark grey obelisk immediately catches the eye, dwarfing its surroundings. There is no Lost Symbol-style mystery about this monument, and the enormous chiselled letters on its sides tell a sad story. It is the Martyrs’ Memorial, and was erected in 1844 as a tribute to 18^th century political reformers who were exiled to Australia. 

          For me, however, the highlight is a lean man perched atop a sandstone plinth. His bearded face is stern and gaunt, and unmistakable. In his hand he clutches a speech. Below him a crouching, barefoot figure with muscular arms, rolled-up trousers and tight curls on his head extends his hand imploringly. Between the two – one a president, the other a slave – a single word is visible: emancipation. The president is Abraham Lincoln, adorning a monument to Scottish-American soldiers who fought in the American Civil War. It was the first statue of him to appear outside the U.S.A.