ESPLANADE TERRACE PORTOBELLO
The great hush and rush of the sea at Portobello on a sunny morning brings an impenetrable peace. Occasionally, some dog walks its owner by, inseparable companions. Mira, our expressive 57-year old student from the Czech Republic tells me that in her wanderings of Edinburgh she discovered Greyfriar's Bobby.
The statue is outside the Greyfriars Kirkyard at the top of Candlemakers' Row. He sits serenely on a drinking fountain, a reminder of fidelity and love. Everyday he would sit on his master's grave waiting for the one-o-clock gun from Edinburgh Castle then wander off for his midday meal at a nearby hostelry. Fourteen years he lay on his master's grave until his death in 1872
Back at the beach, one dog squats to crap. A woman, several hundred yards behind, walks wholly upright and dignified with a plastic bag over her hand and I'm reminded of putting pieces of chocolate cake into bags for the Rokpa soup kitchen in Glasgow. (In Toronto too, every piece of dog shit is faithfully loaded into a bag, to be found no doubt in every dog-owner's pocket, and deposited somewhere at home, presumably. This, even when the business is done in long grass (where no one would go.) The lady is dressed all in blue, coordinated like an ad for Levis, yet the denim is not of the type that would wear well with work.
Mira, again,with perspicacity, comments on how people here speak to their dogs: that is, not in a commanding way, but rather in an informal and familiar way as one would talk to one's child, chastisement and praise dependent on tone of voice.
One cartoon has a lady bending over her chihuahua wagging a finger and her dog looking sheepish beside a steaming shit, "You're a naughty girl, Tilly, doing poo poo on the road!"
What the dog hears comes out as a bubble from its cocked ear, "Blah blah blah blah blah, Tilly, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah!"
Some people say dogs are a substitute for children-or an addition to the family. They're OK, if you keep them at a distance, like in a kennel or out in the stable.
"People pamper dogs here," I tell Mira and I'm surprised to find out she knows this word.
On the promenade, woman runs by pushing a buggy with a baby staring out. Lots of people walking on their own. A guy with a T-shirt, hands in pockets and a roll up dangling from his mouth. The faint smell of tobacco reminds me of the poison I used to pay for and imbibe.
The keen, clean smell of the salt air prevails and eases the sinuses, massages the nostril linings and lays a cool balm on the mind, at last untroubled by the past and the future.
