I cannot remember when I first noticed the statue of James Young Simpson. I've been in Edinburgh for a very long time, and the city's many statues usually escape my notice.
It is found at the western end of Princes Street. He is seated and leafing through a tome while gazing to the west, towards Haymarket. He has a lion's mane on his head and the square jaw of a boxer.
I am uncertain if I saw the statue before I chanced upon the building where he used to live. And it was chance. Many years ago I worked as a poorly paid teacher of English in a language school on Queen Street, and walking home I would pass the building which bears the memorial to this scientist. He was, it says, the man who 'discovered the anaesthetic power of chloroform'.
This sounded rather cool to me. A modicum of research revealed that he and his nineteenth century pals would conduct experiments on their own persons, which was how the chloroform discovery was made.
My research also revealed that Simpson was buried in a cemetery very close to my home. I rather like graveyards, and this fact piqued my interest still further. Indeed, a path which leads from the city centre towards my home passes directly above Warriston Cemetery.
The gates were always closed, however, and I learned that the place was not open to the public. And yet, on occasion I saw people within its confines, usually with dogs. Eventually I noticed a big hole in the wall. Here was the way in!
So, today, after a wait of several years, and driven in by a combination of mild curiosity and the boredom of lockdown, I climbed over the wall. On the other side, a muddy, sticky morass serving as a path awaited me.
I had expected a kind of wasteland featuring homeless people, dog poo and condom wrappers (cemeteries having apparently become a popular venue for sex). I saw none of this, however, the overriding impression being instead one of neglect and the passage of time. Most of the tombstones I passed were no longer upright, having presumably been pushed over. I discovered a couple of spots where gravestones had seemingly been thrown together, like Christmas trees dumped on the street in January.
Sounds were few: the soughing of the wind, birds chattering and the squeaking and creaking of tall, ancient-looking trees whose branches were threatening to snap off. A handful of dog owners passed me, perhaps wondering what on earth I was doing there with a bag of shopping from Tesco.
I walked through a tunnel to the northern end of the graveyard. Here the place was in pretty good shape. I soon realised that the cemetery was actually rather massive and, after checking out a couple of dozen likely candidates for Simpson's grave, I admitted defeat. I had a tub of ice cream in my shopping bag and I was wasting my time. On the way out, I almost fell over; I held on to my shopping at the cost of a hand caked in mud.
Upon returning home, my wife's reaction to my spur of the moment tour of the cemetery was as anticipated: a knowing shake of the head and, upon seeing my muddy hand, the well-informed observation that I was lucky I'd remained upright.
