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.