Wherein ...

... an angel plays bagpipes under Arms, Thistles and Lierne-vaults in a high kirk, a cigarette transformed into a quill, and a dismembered felon confident of resurrection.

Dour is a word one might use about the architecture of the High Kirk of Edinburgh and one would not be far off the mark, yet for those of us whose hearts beat a little faster at the sight of stone buildings, Saint Giles' Cathedral, as it is better known, sited as it is on the descending greyness of the Royal Mile in the Old Town, brought a certain not-quite-palpitation-more-a-wobble to this non-presbyterian heart.

A bombolone I'd eaten at breakfast, repeating as it did, had created something of a dour mood in me as I stepped through the modern abstract blue glass porch, screened in steel, to the sunlit interior – an interior of rigorous stone bald of decoration but for a kneeling angel which, despite being a copy of one by Thorvaldsen, is more fitting as garden ornament than font; tombs; monuments (one by Saint Gaudens who, because of offense to the church fathers' sensibilities, changed the cheroot held by Robert Louis Stevenson to something resembling a quill); memorial plaques to men lost in wars and at sea; a memorial chapel to the Marquis of Montrose whose parts, having being hung, drawn and quartered, were scattered across Scotland, but now are gathered again in one place under these lines

Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air 

Lord, since thou knowest where all these atoms are 

I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou'lt raise me with the just;

a bronze statue of John Knox (his body lying, as came an English king also to do, under a parking lot), bosses marking the coming-together of ribs in the vaulting, chandeliers reminiscent of phalanxes of space craft, a white-ribbed, blue ceiling to the nave, a red-encased organ, and some of the most beautiful stained glass windows (one by Burne-Jones) this side of that Undiscovered Country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, etc. (I said, I began the day in a dour mood).

Beyond its associations with John Knox and the Scottish Reformation, the real glory of Saint Giles' is a space called the Thistle Chapel or the Chapel of The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle – a lushly Edwardian feast for the heart and eyes.

A Gothic Revival jewel-box, small, abundantly enriched, reminding one of a reliquary, as indeed it is, but not of any saint's bones – for here the relics are Heraldry, Chivalry, Nobility, Sovereignty and Scottish History, interwoven with angels – some on the walls holding lamps, others holding symbols of the Christian Virtues, a cross for Faith, an anchor for Hope, a heart for Charity, and one, most fittingly, blowing the bagpipes. Atop most of the pinnacles surmounting the stalls, nineteen in all – one for the sovereign, two for accompanying royals and sixteen for the Knights and Ladies of the Order – are Knights' crests which correspond to a stallplate in the stall. Some are wonderfully tacky though, having said that, I realize that modern taste has nothing to do with heraldry.

The ceiling, breathtaking in its complexity – lierne-vaults encrusted with bosses, almost a hundred of them, with the five largest ones representing the Royal Arms, Saint Giles and his hind, the Badge of the Order of the Thistle, Saint Andrew (patron saint of the Order) with his saltire, and the Pelican (ancient symbol of Christ's sacrifice), all placed along the central spine – is, despite the difference in scale, as beautiful as that of Saint George's, Windsor Castle which I'd visited but days before.

I could go on all day describing details of The Thistle Chapel. Suffice to say, if you are in Edinburgh or closeby, take the detour and take the time to sit and and marvel.

"Hip and happening" is a phrase that makes my heart sink, for it means only one thing to me – noise. Nonetheless, hip and happening is where we were at, as it were, and I must say the Hotel Missoni – despite one night being woken by Breughel-like howling and singing from Victoria Street below the window – is where I would stay on a return visit to Edinburgh. Incidentally, we ate the best Italian food at the hotel restaurant (I cannot say the best Italian food in Edinburgh because other than lunching at The New Club we ate all meals in the hotel. It was that good.)

I am conscious I need to catch up on replying to comments to the last post, and I shall. The only excuse I have for tardiness is that last week we took a last-minute trip across the Atlantic – business for the Celt, pleasure for us both.