What a difference two-thirds of a century makes. This photo was taken from the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral some time after the devastating air raid on the night of 29 December 1940, looking north-north-west. I think the street running diagonally from the lower-right hand corner is Paternoster Row, which had long been the centre of London’s publishing trade.

And the following one was taken in August 2007, from the same place and in roughly the same direction (more N-W than N-N-W). Paternoster Row has gone, and has been replaced by Paternoster Square.

In fact, there aren’t many features common to both photos. That’s not only Goering’s fault, but also that of the post-war urban planners who intentionally obliterated what was left of the old street plan. (And they were apparently inspired by Stalin and Le Corbusier.) The whole area was re-redeveloped around the turn of the millennium, by all accounts a vast improvement.

Image sources: M. J. Bernard Davy, Air Power and Civilization (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1941), facing 144 (1940); me (2007).

Since coming home from London, I keep coming across interesting things which I could have seen while I was there, but didn’t. Which is not at all surprising, given the city’s size and history, but it’s true even in the relatively restricted confines of Bloomsbury, where I was staying and got to know fairly well (or so I thought). My first inkling of this came when I was watching Black Books for the nth time, and idly wondered where the exterior location filming was done. Practically around the corner from where I was staying, as it happens; I must have walked past the street it’s in on an almost daily basis, if not down the very street itself. If I’d known I would have gone in and bought a book, even at the risk of being verbally abused for my troubles!

But there were also things I didn’t know about which were more relevant to my research. Chronologically, I stumbled across the earliest when flipping through a new Osprey book, London, 1914-1917: The Zeppelin Menace by Ian Castle. It’s got these nice maps showing the tracks of individual Zeppelins across the city, and where their bombs fell. And from one of the raids, there were two nearby, one in the south-east corner of Russell Square Gardens and the other in Queen Square. Unfortunately I was too poor (or at least too responsible) to buy the book, and I can’t remember what the date of the raid was. Judging from this, it would appear to be 8 September 1915. And the Bedford Hotel on Southampton Row was hit on 24 September 1917 by one of the first Gotha night raiders.

Anyway, I’ve been to former bomb sites before. A more truly unique event which took place in Bloomsbury was the discovery of the nuclear chain reaction which underpins all nuclear weapons and nuclear reactors — or at least the idea of the chain reaction. This flash of inspiration took place in the brain of Leó Szilárd, a refugee Jewish physicist, on 12 September 1933, at the traffic lights at the intersection of Southampton Row and Russell Square (in fact, only a few metres from where the Zeppelin bomb had fallen). Again, I walked past this spot several times a week, at least. It would have been an appropriate, if noisy, place from which to contemplate the subsequent atomic age.

Even that place, significant though it may be, has nothing to mark its connection to this past. That’s not true for the final (so far) thing I missed in Bloomsbury, the Goodge Street Deep Level Shelter. This was one of eight air raid shelters excavated between 1940 and 1942, parallel to existing Tube stations on the Northern Line. During the war, they were intended to hold 8000 people each; afterward, they could be used as the basis for an express line. Due to the end of the Blitz, none of them were used as shelters until 1944, and the new tunnel was never built. Goodge Street was in fact used by Eisenhower as a headquarters (though I think SHAEF itself was in Bushy Park); apparently he announced D-Day from here and one of the two entrances is called the Eisenhower Centre. That’s on Chenies Street, which I’m not sure I walked down; but the other is on Tottenham Court Road, and I most certainly walked past that more than once without even noticing.

Well, darn it all to heck.

The last few hours of daylight of my last day in Rome were upon me. So, sadly, I couldn’t linger in the forum — there was still so much to see!

On top of the Capitoline Hill (the centre of religious life in ancient Rome) is the Piazza del Campidoglio, a space designed by Michaelangelo. There are three palazzi on its edges: this one, the Palazzo Senatorio, is Rome’s town hall. It was built in the 13th century, though the facade is from the late 16th (and the twin staircases are by Michaelangelo). The resting place for the birds is a replica of an equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius which stood here for several centuries (see below).

The other two palazzi are occupied by the Musei Capitolini, the Capitoline Museums. Their history can be traced back to 1471, when Pope Sixtus IV donated what are still some of its most impressive artefacts to the people of Rome (though it seems they weren’t actually allowed to see them for about three hundred years) and housed them on the Capitoline. 1471! That’s ZOMG-worthy in and of itself. But there are far more ZOMGs to come.

These aren’t part of the original collection: they have only been in the museum for 522 years. They are marble fragments of a colossal statue of Constantine which originally stood (or sat, rather, as he was enthroned) in the Basilica of Maxentius.

The original statue (the torso was made of brick, wood and possibly bronze, and has not survived) was about 12 metres high. Here’s how Con would have appeared from the vantagepoint of one of his citizens in the early 4th century.

A newly-restored bronze equestrian statue, sans rider, which is Greek and either 5th- or 4th-century BC. It may even have been carved by one of the great sculptors of antiquity, Phidias, if this USA Today article is to be believed. (Well, it’s probably no worse than Wikipedia …)

This is the equestrian bronze of Marcus Aurelius which used to stand in the piazza. Notice the lack of stirrups — the Romans didn’t have ‘em.

It’s apparently the only full-size bronze of an emperor to have survived, as in the Middle Ages they tended to be melted down to make more useful things. The pagan philosopher Marcus was spared, it is said, because he was confused with Constantine, the first Christian emperor. Seems a bit unlikely when you look at the clean-shaven Constantine above … but whatever the reason, we can be grateful that it has survived.

Probably the museum’s most famous artefact out of an incredibly iconic collection: the Capitoline Wolf, a bronze statue of the she-wolf who, according to Rome’s founding myth, suckled the infant Romulus and Remus. (Their figures were added in the 15th century.) It’s not just any statue, either: it was famous enough for both Cicero and Pliny the Elder to write about it. That is, assuming it is the same statue — two Italian scholars claimed recently that it may have been cast in the middle ages. (Bloody historians, they are no fun at all.) Otherwise, it’s Etruscan and dates to 500 BC or so.

Also mentioned by Pliny is this Hercules, which originally stood in the Temple of Hercules Victor, by the Tiber (and which I didn’t know about when I was only 200 metres from the place!)

And the hits keep on coming: fragments of another colossal statue of Constantine, bronze this time. Part of the original collection (thanks, Sixtus!)

A life-size dog, found near the auditorium of Maecenas, a patron of the arts. Whether this has anything to do with him, I don’t know, but it’s probably safe to assume that whoever commissioned it was a dog person.

Connecting the two palazzi of the Museum is a tunnel running past the ancient state records archives, which has some interesting bits and pieces in it, but the best thing about it is the view of the Roman Forum. From the left: the Arch of Septimius Severus, the tiny Arch of Titus, the Column of Phocas, the Palatine.

Marforio, one of Rome’s five talking statues — a place where, during the Renaissance, popular dissent could be expressed by sticking up satrical poems and the like. He now resides (reclines) in the second of the museum’s palazzi. Originally (i.e. during the 1st century) he represented the god Oceanus.

.

Another really, really, really famous piece, the Dying Gaul. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess I sort of assumed he was one of Vercingetorix’s mob. He’s actually a Galatian warrior, one of a large group of Gauls who managed to make it to central Anatolia, in what is now Turkey. It’s a Roman copy of a Hellenistic original from the 3rd century BC.

Dying with dignity.

Rather more cheerful is this boy playing with a goose. Unless it’s a copy of a statue made by Boethus, mentioned by Pliny: in that case, he’s strangling it.

If I squint the right way, it looks like the bust in the middle is of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, brother of Commodus, old flame of Russell Crowe. But the interesting thing is the colours — it’s made from at least four types of marble — and in particular the stripes. How did the sculptor do that? Are they just painted on? Has the marble been stained somehow? Not for the first time I find myself wishing I’d lashed out on the beautiful and massive museum catalogue!

I have no idea who she was …

… but this is the Capitoline Venus. Presumably as a concession to her modesty, she has a room all to herself. Compare with the Campo Iemini Venus in the British Museum.

Hey, you’re supposed to appreciate her from all angles, that’s why she’s in the middle of an octagonal room! And compare with Aphrodite Kallipygos. I think the latter wins out, actually — purely on artistic merit, you understand.

Once again, I must confess my ignorance of this statue’s identity. Nike/Victoria? Nemesis? Iris?

Now, this statue fascinated me. Who it represents is unknown, other than a Roman matron from the Flavian period. The head is clearly a portrait of a real person, not idealised (though the body probably is). Judging from her face, she’s past the first bloom of youth, but confident enough to display her mostly-naked body and perhaps even disdainful of the viewer’s reaction. What would she do with such a statue? Is it something you’d put in the atrium to greet visitors? Or keep it in private for the pleasure of a privileged audience? I’d love to know the story behind this one.

This small boy is definitely strangling the snake, because he’s the infant Hercules, defending himself against Juno’s assassin.

That’s it for the Capitoline Museum. It’s an amazing collection, not as big or diverse as the British Museum’s, but possibly of even higher quality overall (at least if you like Roman stuff. Which I do).

Probably everyone does a little double-take when they see this — it seems familiar somehow, have I taken a wrong turn? It’s not the Colosseum, of course, but the Theatre of Marcellus, inaugurated by Augustus in 12 BC. It’s been extended by later users — the top level is apartments! (The silhouetted photo at the top of the post shows the theatre as well.)

Nearby is a contemporary structure, the Porticus Octaviae. In antiquity, it contained temples, a library and a curia. Latterly it was the site of a fish market, from medieval times through to the end of the 19th century. I can report that it no longer smells of fish.

I walked past the porticus to the Tiber, to the Pons Fabricius, the second-oldest intact bridge in Rome (I think so — the Milvian Bridge is older). The faces on the pillar belong to Janus.

The inscription reads:

L FABRICIVS C F CVR VIAR
FACIVNDVM COERAVIT
Q LEPIDVS M F M LOLLIVS M F COS

Don’t ask me what it means, except that Q. Lepidus and M. Lollius were evidently the consuls in the year the bridge was finished (i.e. 62 BC).

Looking north along the Tiber. On the left is Tiber Island, or Isola Tiberina, the site of a temple to Aesculapius the healer in antiquity, and the location of an antimatter bomb in a Dan Brown novel, according to Wikipedia.

By now I was very tired and footsore, hot and sweaty. I could have tried to find a few more sights to cross off my list, or wandered around one of the many museums, or even gone back to the Roman Forum to see what it looked like at dusk. But to be honest, all I could think of now was getting back to the hotel and flopping down on the bed. Which was half-way across the city. Cursing the ubiquitous Roman cobblestones, I rested in the Largo dei Librai, very near the site of the (long gone) Theatre of Pompey, where Julius Caesar was assassinated. Squashed into the angle between two buildings is this tiny church, Santa Barbara dei Librai (St. Barbara of the Books), founded in the 11th century and rebuilt in 1680.

Nearby is the Campo de’ Fiori. The papal rulers of Rome used this space to carry out executions, and it was on this spot on 17 February 1600 that Darth BrunoGiordano Bruno was burnt at the stake for heresy. (DID YOU KNOW: the call sign of the popular Sydney radio station 2GB is named for Bruno, because its original owners were theosophists who held him in high regard.)

And then I eventually got back to the hotel, packed my bags, got a good night’s sleep, and after another day or so got back to Australia (via Heathrow and Hong Kong).

This concludes my series of posts on my 2007 trip to Britain and Italy!

After my first day in Rome, I collapsed onto my bed in my little hotel room, watched Italian TV, and got a good night’s sleep. Which was just as well, as I still had a lot to see on my last day …

First stop: the Column of Marcus Aurelius, erected in the late 2nd century to honour his victory in the Marcomannic Wars, in which the Romans defeated a series of invading German tribes. (The column at the head of the post is Trajan’s Column, the inspiration for this one.)

Winding up around the column is a pictorial account of the campaign. Here, the Roman Army crosses the Danube into barbarian territory, over a pontoon bridge, probably in 172. Note the window on the right — there’s a spiral staircase inside the column leading up to the platform at the top.

I kept my eye out for this bit, as I remembered it particularly from Anthony Birley’s biography of Marcus Aurelius. It’s the Rain Miracle, a mysterious episode which occurred in 172 or so. The legion XII Fulminata was surrounded by the Quadi and without water. Weak from thirst, they were nearly at the point of surrender when an Egyptian priest in the Emperor’s retinue used magic to bring down the rain. Reinvigorated, the legionaries defeated the Quadi. And the makers of the column commemorated this deliverance with the rather spooky figure above.

Trajan’s Column and Trajan’s Forum (above) are just behind the typewriter, and were my introduction to the whole forum complex — the heart of ancient Rome. It doesn’t look like much now, but this was once the biggest and busiest forum of them all. Also the last to be built, opening for business in 112.

This is Trajan’s Market (on the right in the previous photo, behind the fragment of wall). Ignore the black egg thing — that’s part of some modern art installation. This is way cool — it’s basically a Roman shopping centre/office building, which you can walk around in! It’s also where the corn dole (the bread in ‘bread and circuses’) was administered.

Here are some of the little shops on the second floor. I’m not sure what exactly was sold in this area, but probably something along the lines of food, oil or wine.

Until I make it to Pompeii or Ostia, this is the closest I’ll get to an actual ancient Roman street! And how cool would it be to live in the house behind, and peer out your window into the past?

Now, this is (part of) the Roman Forum proper. It was already ancient when Augustus became emperor: Tarquinius Priscus, one of the Etruscan kings of Rome, cleared a space for it by draining the original marsh sometime around 600 BC.

The Arch of Septimius Severus. Like the columns of his imperial predecessors, it was built to celebrate a victory, this time over the Parthians. Originally, it would have had a flight of steps leading up to the arch, like Trajan’s Arch in Ancona, rather than a having a road through it as it does now, and as more modern triumphal arches tend to do.

In the foreground on the left is the Column of Phocas, erected in 608 to honour the Byzantine emperor Phocas — or rather, re-erected and re-purposed from its original function, which was to support a statue of Diocletian. Not exactly in the same class as the older columns shown above: such was the decline of Rome. It was apparently the last addition to the forum.

In its way, the survival of this building is as remarkable as that of the Pantheon, and it has survived for the same reason: because it was turned into a church. The Curia Julia was where the Senate of Rome met to debate and vote. Sadly, it’s not the same building that Cicero, Fabius Cunctator, Cincinnatus, etc used, or even in the same location. This site was chosen for a new senate house by Julius Caesar (hence the name), which was completed by Augustus in 29 BC. But that building itself burned down in 283, and was rebuilt under Diocletian (according to Wikipedia, but wouldn’t Maximian have been responsible, as the tetrarch in charge of Italy?)

Inside the Curia. I’m not sure what this is — supposedly the Curia was mostly bare inside. I suppose that could be the emperor seated on the chair in the middle, with his senators around him? You can also get a glimpse of the colourful pavement, which dates to the early 4th century.

Just nearby is the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, another building preserved by its use as a church (though only partly, this time). Antoninus Pius was one of the five proverbially good emperors (others included Trajan and Marcus Aurelius). I don’t know how good he really was, but he certainly loved his wife Faustina, for after her death her deified her and dedicated this temple to her. After his own death, Hadrian (another good emperor) deified Antoninus himself and re-dedicated the temple to both of them.

Facing in the opposite direction for a moment, in the foreground is (I think) the House of the Vestals and behind that, the Palatine Hill. Actually, you can’t see much of the hill itself because in front of it are these massive retaining walls. The Palatine was the most exclusive address in Republican Rome, and so naturally when the Emperors came along it’s where they built their palaces.

The massive Basilica of Maxentius and Constantine (M started it but C won the right to finish it at the Milvian Bridge). Nowadays a basilica is a church, but back then it was something more like a town hall. More recently, it was the setting for the wrestling at the 1960 Olympics!

Further down the Via Sacra is the Arch of Titus, built by Domitian to honour his predecessor and older brother, who died in 81. It has been restored in recent centuries (note the obviously newer bits on the sides). In the middle ages it had been used as a fortress by one Italian noble family!

It was also used, in the 16th century, as the site for the Jews of Rome’s ghetto to declare their obedience to the Pope, Rome’s ruler. The reason for this, I presume, is because the Arch marks the defeat of the Jewish rebellion by Titus. This detail from the arch shows the looting of the Temple of Jerusalem.

Yet another arch, possibly the most famous of all the Roman arches — the Arch of Constantine, dedicated in 315. It was probably originally the Arch of Hadrian, but as he died nearly two centuries earlier, I don’t suppose he minded being usurped too much. It’s a beautiful spot for wedding photos (possibly after holding the ceremony itself in the Pantheon), but judging from where the photographer is standing, the actual backdrop is …

… the Colosseum! One of the most famous structures in the world. On which I promptly turned my back, and headed up the Palatine Hill. I can’t even remember why. I think it was because the same ticket covered both the Colosseum and the Palatine, but the queues were far shorter at the Palatine!

The Colosseum from the Palatine.

There are all sorts of interesting bits and pieces on the Palatine, though no structures as impressive as in the forum. This is on the side of a long pedestrian tunnel or cryptoporticus, built for Nero. (Caligula was stabbed in the Palatine cryptoporticus — oooooh, that must hurt, as Kenneth Williams might have said — though it might have been a different one which was uncovered recently.) It’s a wonder some duke or pope didn’t cart it away centuries ago.

The same goes for this, which is on a wall above a small outdoor shrine or something of that sort — there are two niches where statues presumably used to stand. Who, or what, is she?

Part of a monumental foot. Look on my works, ye mighty, etc.

There’s a small museum on the Palatine, mostly filled with assorted statuary found nearby, but some frescos too. This one of Apollo Citaredo — Apollo the cithara player?

A courtyard in Domitian’s late-1st century palace, dominated by a fountain (?).

One end of the so-called Hippodrome of Domitian. It’s too small to be for racing horses, so maybe it was a stadium for athletics, or perhaps just a garden shaped like a stadium … The oval feature shown here may be part of the restoration carried out during the reign of the Ostrogothic king Theodoric, some decades after the end of the Roman Empire in the West.

The Colosseum’s big, yeah, but it’s not the G, is it? And in fact, the name probably comes from a giant statue of Nero which stood nearby: the Romans called this the Colossus and the Colosseum the Amphitheatrum Flavium, the Flavian Ampitheatre. It wasn’t until about 900 years after it was built that people started calling it by the now-familiar name.

Closer to the level of the arena floor itself, which was made of wood and so is long gone (though much of the more durable bits have also since been plundered for building materials). But you can still see the hypogeum, the tunnels in which the animals and gladiators were kept before combat.

I had previously read somewhere that the Colosseum was well-designed in terms of moving people around. Recent simulations have cast some doubt on this view, however, identifying some potential bottlenecks. Perhaps that’s not so surprising — how much experience could the Romans have had with designing buildings capable of holding 50,000 people at a time?

It was by now mid-afternoon. Time to push on … but I had to take another picture of the Arch of Constantine, before walking back through the forum up to the Capitoline Hill.

So. After leaving the Vatican, I headed south.

I walked past these massive walls. I thought at the time they were the Aurelian Walls, built in the 3rd century, which I vaguely knew were somewhere in the direction I was heading. But as far as I can judge, they’re actually much later, built by some pope or other in the Middle Ages.

Crossing back over the Tiber, I found my way to Piazza Navona, which is much bigger and more airy than the one in South Yarra. At one end is the Fontana della Nettuno, or Fountain of Neptune, designed in the 16th century by Giacomo della Porta, whose influence can be seen all over Rome today.

Adjacent to the piazza is the 16th-century church of San Luigi dei Francesi, St Louis of the French. It is in fact the French national church in Rome (designed by della Porta, as it happens). Underneath a statue of St Louis is this curiously dinosaur-like creature, and the legend NVTRISCO ET EXTINGO. It’s actually a salamander, the heraldic device of Francis I of France. Not sure what his connection to the church is, other than perhaps his daughter-in-law Catherine de’ Medici, who apparently helped out in some way.

This was my intended destination: the Pantheon, something I’ve long wanted to see. It’s just astounding that this building has survived intact and in continuous use for so long. For it was built in about 125, and so will reach a lazy 1900 years of age in 2025 or so. Originally it was a temple, more recently a church. (It’s still a church. Some people even get to have weddings there. Just awesome.) It’s built on the site of an earlier temple designed by Agrippa, the friend of Augustus who appears on the Ara Pacis, and his proud claim was reproduced over the portico, as can be seen above: ‘Marcus Agrippa, son of Lucius, consul for the third time, made it’.

Around 200, the Roman historian Cassius Dio wrote that:

Agrippa finished the construction of the building called the Pantheon. It has this name, perhaps because it received among the images which decorated it the statues of many gods, including Mars and Venus; but my own opinion of the name is that, because of its vaulted roof, it resembles the heavens.

Here is that vaulted roof (though minus the original metal ceiling, stripped away by the Byzantine emperor Constans II in 663). It’s magnificent.

The hole, the oculus at the apex is 9 metres across and lets in light and fresh air. I had the idea from somewhere that it also relieved the stress on the dome by reducing its weight, but can’t find a source for that. It wouldn’t have had much effect anyway; the indentations would have helped more. The Wikipedia page says that just how the Pantheon has remained intact for so long is a bit of a mystery, that normal Roman concrete would have crumbled long ago. Apparently its builders took especial care to squeeze out air bubbles which would have weakened it.

Right next to the Pantheon is Piazza Minerva (so called because there was a temple of Minerva on this site in Roman times), with this delightful obelisk (Egyptian, 6th century BC) and pedestal, the Pulcino della Minerva. (And behind can be seen a 14th-century Gothic church, Santa Maria sopra Minerva, with a magnificent restored interior. Of which I was completely oblivious at the time. Sigh.)

The obelisk is the smallest in Rome, and the elephant was designed in the mid-17th century by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, whose name is even more ubiquitous in Rome than della Porta’s. It’s apparently inspired by one of the illustrations in the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499), one of the earliest printed books and a wonderfully arcane and allegorical text. I read the 1592 English translation a long time ago, and the recent full translation by Jocelyn Godwin is sitting on my bookshelf waiting for me to finish my PhD …

The Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, AKA ‘the typewriter’. Inside is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Behind is the Roman Forum.

On the way back to my hotel, I stopped at the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, a museum near the main railway station and the Baths of Diocletian. I had the place practically to myself — apparently everyone else in Rome could find better things to do on a Saturday evening!

These are part of the Praeneste Fasti, an Augustan-period calendar of various important dates from the forum a town near Rome — religious feasts, the emperor’s birthday and so on. (There were a lot of holidays, but then the Romans hadn’t invented the concept of a ‘week-end’ yet.) It also specified the days on which, for religious reasons, judicial courts and the like could not sit. As you can see, I’ve discovered that the Romans used the same alphabet order as we do! Possibly somebody’s noticed that before now, though.

The chief glory of the Palazzo Massimo is its statuary. For example, Augustus, pontifex maximus, from the last decade BC.

A Greek statue from the fifth century BC, which some Roman plundered or purchased and brought to the Gardens of Sallust. She is one of the children of Niobe, and unfortunately has been hit in the back by an arrow fired by Artemis. On the plus side, it’s done wonders for her bustline.

A rare Hellenistic bronze, dating to the second century BC. Inspired by a statue of Alexander, it may be intended to represent Attalus II, the King of Pergamum, or else a Roman Hellenophile.

He’s pretty clearly a real individual, but this is all that’s left of him now.

Found with the ‘prince’ was this seated boxer, another Greek masterpiece from the 1st century BC. His face shows the scars of his battle.

A Venus Pudica, 1st century BC.

Another beautiful female form …

… ah, no. Well, partly, it is. It’s Hermaphroditus, from the 2nd century.

This looks like a mother and child, at first glance. But as far as I can tell from the Italian caption and Babelfish, it’s actually Tethys (Teti in Italian) and baby Triton (look closely at the legs … they’re not), her grandson. I think.

A Dionysus Sardanapalus, a 2nd century copy of a much older Greek original.

Part of a bronze guard-rail from one of Caligula’s Lake Nemi pleasure barges. The two ships themselves, 70 metres long, were recovered during the Fascist period (when the lake was drained), only to be destroyed by fire in 1944 — whether by the German (intentionally) or American (unintentionally) army is unclear. My impression is that Italy suffered comparatively lightly from the war, in terms of its cultural heritage, but I suppose it couldn’t escape entirely.

The first of three emperors, each in a different style: Septimius Severus (late 2nd century).

His great-nephew, Severus Alexander (earlyish-3rd century).

Gordian III (not long after Severus Alexander). This seems more realistic than the previous two — certainly than Alexander’s, which is very idealistic, but Severus’s looks stylised to me as well.

A late-3rd century sarcophagus, showing a husband and wife (one or both of whom was presumably inside). The way they are reacting to each other seems to show trust and respect.

Part of another sarcophagus, belonging to one Marcus Claudianus, evidently a Christian as it shows a scene from the New Testament. The figures on the previous one were highly individual, very easy to imagine meeting them in real life. Here they’re far more stylised, with angular faces and pointy noses, which I found less to my taste. I did very much like this detail of a child trying to catch a chicken, though.

Second century floor mosaics, showing chariot racers from the different circus factions, along with (I guess) their favourite horses.

I could hardly resist Clio, muse of history! This mosaic and the preceding ones are from the Villa Baccano, which seems to have belonged to the Severans.

One of the last things I saw before closing time was the wonderful room brought from the villa of Livia, wife of Augustus. The walls are decorated with trompe l’oeil frescos of a garden, very softly lit and absolutely no photography allowed. So instead I’ll end with this view of the Piazza della Repubblica at dusk, which ain’t bad but is not nearly as nice.

Rome, beautiful Rome! Is there anything I can say about the Eternal City that hasn’t been said before? No, but I won’t let that stop me trying. It was fantastic both in the sense of great and in the sense of unbelievable — it’s almost hard to believe I really was there. But I have the photos to prove to myself that I didn’t just imagine it all.

One of the first things I noticed was the way that SPQR (Senatus Populusque Romanus, ‘the Senate and people of Rome) is plastered across every lamppost, rubbish bin, etc. The Empire ended some time ago so it seems a bit anachronistic to me …

My first ‘big’ sight on my first day in Rome: the Trevi Fountain. It looks far more impressive in real life than it does on posters on the walls of cheap Italian restaurants, that’s for sure. It’s huge, and the way it dominates a small piazza makes it seem even bigger.

I loved the rocks over which the water tumbles, they seemed both artful and natural at once. They and the rest of the fountain were made in the mid-18th century, to mark the terminus of one of the main aqueducts into Rome. Apparently the water is very pure — I assumed it must have been liberally dosed with chlorine!

The Spanish Steps. Luckily, you don’t have to be Spanish to use them.

From half-way up the Steps, looking down the Via Condotti (i.e. in the opposite direction to the above photo), a very fashionable shopping district. Lucky I didn’t try to walk down it then, or I’d probably have been arrested by the fashion polizia.

This was taken from somewhere on the Pincian Hill, looking past a fountain towards some church or other.

An Egyptian obelisk, in Rome? Yes, and it’s not the only one, either. They’re all over the place, in fact. This one is the obelisco Flaminio in the Piazza del Popolo. It’s from the reign of Rameses II, from Heliopolis, and during the reign of Augustus was brought to Rome to stand in the Circus Maximus. It rather puts Cleopatra’s Needle to shame!

Some church (not the same some church as above, although I think that church is nearby) in the Piazza Augusto Imperatore (where the Mausoleum of Augustus is, though that’s not particularly interesting to look at, as it’s currently closed). There are a lot of churches in Rome. (Not so many chapels, synagogues, mosques or temples.) I honestly don’t know what they do with them all! The following day was a Sunday, but I didn’t see much evidence of them filling up with parishioners.

Update: By chance, I came across an account of the opening of the Ara Pacis in the Times of 1938, and it has a little map … so I now know that the church is San Rocco.

Also in the Piazza is a Fascist-era building, with a frieze celebrating the technology of war: early modern-era weapons on the left, modern ones (e.g. machine guns) on the right.

My first ‘wow … just, wow’ moment of the day. According to the Res Gestae Divi Augusti, a record of the achievements of the emperor Augustus written late in his life,

When I returned to Rome from Gaul and from Spain, in the consulship of Tiberius Nero and Publius Quintilio, having brought to a satisfactory finish my works in these provinces, the Senate decreed that there should be consecrated in the Field of Mars an altar to the Augustan Peace and ordered that the officials, priests and vestal virgins should celebrate a sacrifice at it every year.

And this is that altar: the Ara Pacis, or Altar of Peace (also now in the Piazza Augusto Imperatore), dedicated in 9 BC. Or at least some of it is — much of it is a modern reconstruction, as only fragments have been found. But what fragments!

(Oh, the mannequins in the dresses? There was some sort of retrospective fashion exhibition in the Museo dell’Ara Pacis, that is to say, modern fashion. I can’t blame Italians for wanting to point out that they didn’t just die out at the end of the 18th century … but still: not interested.)

Start with the steps. Well, they’re only steps … but steps that Augustus himself probably climbed. Or am I assuming too much? Maybe he wasn’t allowed inside the altar, just the priests? (The Romans did have some odd superstitions. Then again, he was Pontifex Maximus …) Or maybe he didn’t turn up at all because he had an empire to run? Or maybe they were replaced a couple of centuries later due to wear and tear. Oh well.

How about this fragment then, on the east exterior. The identity of the figures is disputed. The one in the middle could be Tellus, Italia, Venus (ancestor of the Julii), or the Pax Augusta herself (which seems most likely to me, but then I’m just a tourist). She is dandling two putti (NOT cherubs, as I discovered about 1 minute ago), which along with the plants, fruit and animals refer to fecundity and plenty, and then on either side are figures representing the winds. Why the winds? For their importance for maritime trade, perhaps?

On the south side is a long panel showing a procession of people, priests, lictors and Augustus himself. In the photo above can be seen Agrippa, Augustus’ close friend and advisor; either Livia, Augustus’ wife, or Julia, Agrippa’s; and between them, Agrippa and Julia’s son (and Augustus’ grandson), Gaius. He, along with his older half-brother Lucius, was adopted by Augustus so that they would be his heirs. But first Lucius and then Gaius died in their twenties, while Augustus was still alive, and so Tiberius (Augustus’ stepson) eventually became emperor. It’s impossible to know if the Julio-Agrippans would have been any better than the Julio-Claudians, but they could hardly have been worse.

Another family group: here we see Germanicus holding the hand of Antonia, his mother, and behind him is his father, Drusus. Germanicus was another might-have-been-emperor: he was an excellent general, like his father, but died in suspicious circumstances, perhaps due to the jealousy of his uncle Tiberius, who was then emperor. However, his son Gaius — Caligula — succeeded Tiberius, and his brother Claudius succeeded Caligula, so his part of the family got to have their turn.

After leaving the Ara Pacis, I headed south along the Tiber, where I saw this building. It looks like somebody has ripped out the twin fasces symbols from either side of the facade (the keystone over the arch is also damaged). But they didn’t bother to plaster over the holes left behind. This strikes me as quite apt. All over Rome, there are ancient sites and monuments with signs saying that this area was first excavated in 1928-35 (say), or underwent major renovations in 1934-7. But they never say who or what was responsible for all this interest in the Roman past during the 1920s and 1930s. So Fascism is often only detectable by the holes it left behind.

Speaking of the Tiber, here it is. I hate to say it, but it’s not one of the world’s great rivers. It’s sluggish, dirty and smelly. At least it was when I was there, at the start of autumn. But still: what a view! The bridge is the Ponte Sant’Angelo, and behind that is the dome of St Peter’s.

The Pont Sant’Angelo leads, naturally enough, to the Castel Sant’Angelo.

This bridge was built in the 130s! So it’s only a quarter-century short of 1900 years old, and still bearing traffic across the Tiber. The castle was built at the same time — although it wasn’t originally a castle, but Hadrian’s mausoleum. Every emperor from Hadrian to Caracalla was buried there. Under the emperor Honorius, the mausoleum was made part of Rome’s defences, though it was itself looted in 410 by the Visigoths and again in 537 by the Ostrogoths. The popes used it into a fortress (Clement VII sheltered here during the sack of Rome in 1527) and a prison (Giordano Bruno stayed here). Now it’s a museum, although sadly I didn’t visit it as I could see one of my major objectives of the day, St Peter’s Basilica (as shown in the photo at the top of the post).

Even 75 years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to see it from near the Castel Sant’Angelo, however, as the view was blocked by a jumble of old palaces and churches. To celebrate the signing of the Lateran Treaties, Mussolini knocked them down and built the Via della Conciliazione. It’s still controversial, and understandably so — but the view down it is magnificent.

After trekking all that way, I finally made it to St Peter’s Square. Here I am at the back of the queue to go through the security screening (about where the white square is, I think) — there’s another queue beyond that to get into the basilica etc. Actually, I can’t remember if there was security screening, but there was definitely modesty screening: no shoulders, no knees, no belly buttons, no cleavage. These things are evidently not part of God’s plan.

Still, despite the length of the line, it relatively quickly … less than 20 minutes total, which was good because it was now about noon and getting warm. Here I’m a lot closer to getting somewhere. In fact, I’m so close to the basilica that the dome, which is set quite far back, isn’t visible at all. It’s actually a lot more striking from a distance than up close.

This was taken near the door to the basilica, looking back towards Castel Sant’Angelo. It shows just how vast St Peter’s Square is. The canopy is presumably where the Pope stands when addressing the multitudes sitting in all those chairs. And yes, that’s another Egyptian obelisk, 13th century BC this time. During Caligula’s reign it was in a nearby circus, which may have been where St Peter was martyred. It was moved here in the 16th century.

Hmmm, this isn’t St Peter’s. What’s going on here? Well … one of the things I wanted to see was the Sistine Chapel. And the Vatican Museum too. As do most visitors to the Vatican, I’m sure. The problem was that I was in Rome on a weekend, and both the chapel and the museum were open only on the Saturday morning. I was well aware of this, but when I stood at the back of that long queue, I thought that was the line to get into the chapel, because on my map it was marked very close to the basilica. Well, it probably is, but the entrance to the chapel (by way of the museum) is actually a quarter of the way around the Vatican. It may be the world’s smallest country, but by the time I’d realised my mistake I think I had about 10 minutes to get there and I missed it by less than 5. So I took this photo while I was trudging along the walls back to St Peter’s, feeling drained because of my sudden adrenalin burst and dejected because I’d missed out on seeing the Sistine Chapel. I mean, that’s like going to London and not seeing the Tower …

Then I figuratively slapped myself upside the head. I was in Rome! It’s not like there’s nothing else to see and do. So I went and stood in the queue again, and went inside the basilica — actually, down into the crypt below. I took this photo of the tomb of John Paul II, but obviously I wasn’t meant to … never fear, there’s a webcam !

Also in the crypt is the tomb of a king of Great Britain: James III. I was surprised, because there wasn’t a James III. OK, so obviously he’s the Old Pretender. But I was still surprised — what’s he doing under St Peter’s? It turns out that his younger son, Henry Benedict Stuart, became a cardinal in the Catholic Church — though he still styled himself Duke of York and Henry IX. So presumably he pulled strings to get himself, his father and his brother (Bonnie Prince Charlie — they’re all in there) a prime burial place.

Inside the basilica itself. A statue of St Peter, the first Bishop of Rome. The statue is probably about seven hundred years old …

… which is about how long it takes for the kisses and caresses of thousands of pilgrims every year to wear the toes off.

A list of all the Popes buried in St Peter’s. I wonder how accurate it is, and why there’s a gap from the 3rd to 5th centuries.

The so-called Chair of Peter — it’s not old enough to be really be his, as the chair itself is probably Byzantine in origin. As it was falling to pieces, Alexander VII commissioned a monument from Bernini to protect it, with a glory above it. It’s pretty impressive. It’s also pretty blurry — most of my photos inside St Peter’s were unfortunately the same or worse, which I attribute to the aftereffects of the adrenalin rather than an act of God.

As I said, from the ridiculous to the sublime: Michaelangelo’s Pièta. There’s nothing I can add to this.

I’m only half-way through day 1 in Rome — I couldn’t bring myself to leave out enough photos to cram the whole day into one post. The next post will feature a hole, an elephant, and an hermaphrodite, among other things.

My second (and last) day in Edinburgh was unfortunately pretty much overcast the whole day, so my pictures are a bit dull. But as I spent most of the time indoors, this didn’t matter too much. (Above, Edinburgh Castle from the Princes Street Gardens.)


I first walked to the late-18th century New Town, which has a completely different feel to the Royal Mile: it’s all elegant squares and buildings, rather than closes randomly leading hither and yon. That’s because it was planned from the outset. It’s a stellar example of town planning, beautifully executed. Yay for the Scottish Enlightenment!

The photo is of the Georgian House, Charlotte Square, which at the time belonged to a wealthy merchant. It’s been restored to give visitors an idea of (literally) upstairs-downstairs life.

Not the most exciting photo, I admit! It’s Gladstone’s Land, back on the Royal Mile: another merchant’s house, but built originally in the mid-16th century and extended (upwards!) in the early 17th. And condemned in the early 20th century, but luckily it was bought by the National Trust of Scotland. The restorers uncovered a wonderful painted ceiling in the master bedroom, which I could show you if not for the fact that, as in the Georgian House, no photos are allowed :(

I spent most of the day exploring the Royal Museum and the Museum of Scotland, which are right next to each other — in fact each connected to the other. Together they form the National Museum of Scotland. The Museum of Scotland contains artifacts from Scottish history, whereas the Royal Museum is more about science and technology. But there’s still often a local connection.

This is a Weir W-2 autogyro in the Royal Museum. James Weir was a Scottish industrialist who built and developed Cierva autogyros in the 1920s and 1930s. (His brother, William Weir, was Britain’s second Air Minister, in the closing stages of the First World War.) See also: the Avro-built Cierva at Hendon.

A windtunnel model of the (Scottish) Beardmore W.B. 26 2-seat fighter (first flight 1925). Beardmore were mainly a shipbuilding company, and had mixed success in aviation. They built some very good airships, including R34 (a copy of a Zeppelin) which flew across the Atlantic in 1919, and a huge prototype transport monoplane, the Inflexible, in 1928 (which was underpowered). The RAF never flew the W.B. 26, and apparently even Latvia rejected it. Still, it’s a bit harsh for the placard to say that it was a ‘poorly-streamlined design’. What wasn’t, in 1925? The fact that Beardmore were performing windtunnel tests at all was probably progressive enough.

This one can’t be claimed for Scotland, I’m afraid. It’s a TTV-2 (Towed Test Vehicle), used to test the feasibility of bringing a Gemini spacecraft from orbit onto the ground, slung underneath a parawing, rather than splashing into the ocean as with Mercury. NASA ended up doing it the old-fashioned way. I suspect the 12 little triangle symbols under the hatch represent 12 successful tests.

A few years ago, all the technology pundits could talk about was ‘convergence’ — the idea that one device would sit in your living room and perform all the functions of a TV, computer, DVD player, games console, videophone, pianola, etc. Well, here’s what convergence looked like in 1938 — a combined television and radio. (Clearly, convergence can be followed by deconvergence!) I love the radio tuner. The writing isn’t legible in the small version I’ve got here, but as well as frequencies, it’s marked with the names of cities — presumably the locations of the stations broadcasting on those frequencies: Paris, Warsaw, Moscow, Boston. How evocative would it have been to sweep the dial across the world …

(Oh yes, television, John Logie Baird, Scotsman, inspiration for an annual Australian celebration of mediocrity and all that.)

Another product of Scotland: Dolly, the most famous sheep ever.

The following photos are from the Museum of Scotland.

This is pretty amazing: the Ballachulish figure, which has been dated to between 730 and 520 BC. It was found in a peat bog near where Loch Leven meets the sea, and presumably represents a goddess. It warped and split when it dried after being found, so it wouldn’t have looked quite like this originally. But even so, I think it still would have looked weird.

This fragment of a relief was found on the probable site of an ancient monastery in Ross-shire, ca. 700-900. So it was then Pictland, and not yet Scotland. It is thought to show Daniel in the lion’s den.

A Roman cavalry helmet, found at the fort at Newstead (Roman Trimontium, which was only briefly occupied around 80 and then again during the period of the Antonine Wall, 140-80). It wouldn’t have been used in warfare, but in tournaments or displays.

Another piece of Pictish art, 10th century from Bullion. The caption suggests that it’s a caricature of a drunken lord; the catalogue description just says that he’s drinking. Is the catalogue too conservative or the caption too imaginative?

Hmm, not sure about this one (I forgot to snap the caption). It’s from a gallery about the medieval church, presumably from a tomb. It looks like a deathbed scene, anyway.

Here’s a cast of the graveslab of Donald MacGill’easbuig, a 16th-century mercenary leader from Islay in the Inner Hebrides.

The Maiden, used to execute about a hundred people between 1564 and 1710.

Napier’s Box, a refinement of Napier’s Bones. It’s essentially a simple mechanical calculator which can do multiplication and division, invented by the Scottish mathematician John Napier in the early 17th century.

Despite its superficial resemblance to the Maiden, this is a completely different sort of machine, a Newcomen steam engine. I should point out that while the Scot James Watt made huge improvements to the Newcomen-type engines, and gave the world the steam engines that would power the Industrial Revolution, still, Newcomen was from Devon and his first engines were in Cornwall. The Scottish connection here is that this engine was used at a colliery in Ayrshire until 1901.

A 6-pounder carronade. So cute! I didn’t know that carronades were from Scotland — the name comes from the Carron company which made them for the Royal Navy from 1778. They had a short range and a low muzzle velocity — great for blasting the enemy at short range and shredding them with wooden splinters.

A silk banner for the Mid Lothian Brotherly Society (constituted in the year 1798). I wonder how they’re doing these days.

The Jacquard punchcards from a 19th century handloom from Lanarkshire.

After leaving the museums, I decided to walk up Calton Hill, which has an unusual collection of structures on its top, including the lighthouse-shaped one seen here. (The obelisk on the left is in a cemetery in the foreground; at the bottom of the photo is Waverly Station.)

Nelson’s Monument, built to commemorate Trafalgar. It’s in the shape of a mariner’s spyglass, which is certainly more imaginative than some Nelson monuments I could name. More useful too: the mast on top was used to provide a visual time signal to ships, since the sound from Edinburgh Castle’s one o’clock gun took a couple of seconds to get out there, a potentially serious error when computing longitudes.

I was surprised to find some real telescopes on Calton Hill, or at least the observatory domes which house them. This is the City Observatory, which dates back to 1812 (the dome on the left) and 1896 (the dome on the right). Another building, Observatory House, is the oldest and was built in 1776. I wondered if the observatory had anything to do with the Royal Observatory, Edinburgh, and it turns out that it does, or did — it was the site for ROE between 1822 (when it became royal) and 1896, when it moved to its present location south of Edinburgh. Charles Piazzi Smyth, Astronomer Royal for Scotland and pyramidologist extraordinaire, would have worked here. Slight personal connection: long time ago, I was a summer vacation scholar at the UK Schmidt Telescope Unit (in Australia, despite the name) which was originally operated by ROE. There were still a lot of links with ROE when I was there, with staff coming from and going to there, and the results of observing runs being sent off to their plate library. Today, the City Observatory is run by the Astronomical Society of Edinburgh, which holds observing nights there every month.

Edinburgh’s Disgrace, AKA the National Monument. Monument to what? Well, apparently to the Scotsmen who served in the Napoleonic Wars, though I can’t find it in the UKNIWM (though the Nelson Monument is). It was begun in 1826, intended to be a replica of the Parthenon. But money ran out in 1829, and the 12 columns above are all that were ever completed. Somebody seems to have suggested that it was always intended to be only a partial replica, based on the existence of plans showing exactly what we see today. But an article by Marc Fehlmann in Nineteenth Century Art Worldwide makes it pretty clear that this is not so: there are other drawings showing the full temple, and a quote from one of the architects lamenting the fact that their money has run out and their ‘Parthenon’ will never be finished. Whatever: I think it looks better this way!

On the other hand, my melancholic pleasure at the contemplation of (fake) ancient ruins in the gathering gloom of a northern dusk was not enhanced by some guy belting out arias from all your favourite Italian comic operas. Very strange indeed.

This is from Calton Hill looking back past a memorial to Dugald Stewart, a philosopher who died in 1828, back over the city towards the Castle, which is just visible on the horizon.

Farewell Edinburgh: farewell Scotland: farewell Britain.

After wandering around Edinburgh Castle, I thought: castles are really cool! I wanted to see more, and since I probably should be a confident user of the British transport system by now, I decided that I’d do a day trip out somewhere to see one. A bit of googling led me to Stirling Castle, a mostly-15th/16th century edifice less than an hour away by train. (I see now that I overlooked Craigmillar Castle, which was closer and looks even more castley. But aside from the castle it seems there wouldn’t have been so much to see there.) So I hopped on a little inter-urban train and headed for Stirling, getting a glimpse along the way of the Forth Bridge and the Falkirk Wheel.

Another attraction of Stirling — particularly since I’d never been to a battlefield before — was that the Battle of Bannockburn was fought near here, in 1314. So, when I arrived in Stirling, I went to the bus terminal to find out which one I needed to catch, which was when I encountered the first language difficulties of my entire trip.¹ Inside the terminal, I asked the nice lady behind the information desk what bus I needed to catch for Bannockburn. She probably heard me say something like this: ‘G’day, scunge jumbuck bonza larrikin galah yakka, nahyeah?’ Whereas I heard her say something like: ‘Och aye, scunge tartan scone auld trews. Hoots mon!’ I thought I got a bus route number out of that, somehow, and headed out to the bus shelters. Then, when the bus came, I asked the driver if this was the one for Bannockburn. He looked a bit confused, and indicated no, so I grumpily headed back to the information desk to try again. But then one of the passengers got off the bus and called me back to tell me that it WAS in fact the right bus. He even told me when we reached the right stop. So, thank you, anonymous Scotsman!

Oh yeah, and that’s a statue of Robert the Bruce, who thrashed the English at Bannockburn.

There’s not a whole lot to see at the battlefield itself, unfortunately, which probably isn’t the battlefield anyway. (And I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, for that matter!) But there’s a small museum/visitor’s centre which was really very good, with dioramas and other displays explaining the whys and wherefores of all the battles fought around Stirling over the centuries (the other famous one being the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297, where William Wallace thrashed the English — bit of a theme developing there). The reason why there have been so many is because if you hold Stirling, you hold Scotland: partly because of its position athwart a major crossing of the Forth and between the Lowlands and the Highlands, and partly because of Stirling Castle itself, seen in the photo above. (Not that I actually realised that this was the castle when I took it!)

Right, so, this is back in Stirling proper, walking up the hill towards the castle. It’s the facade of a 16th-century townhouse built for the Earl of Mar, known as Mar’s Wark (’wark’ being Scots for building).

Right next to Mar’s Wark is the Church of the Holy Rude (rude = cross — cf. Holyrood), the oldest parts of which were built in the early 15th century.

It’s where, in 1567, the infant James VI was crowned — by John Knox, no less. This makes it the only British church, still in use, which has been used for a coronation. If, the next time around, Westminster Abbey has been already been booked for another function, I’m sure the Church of the Holy Rude stands ready to take up the slack.

Lots of old headstones in the churchyard outside. Though this one is undated, I guess this is early 17th century or before, just based on the evolution of the styles — I don’t have much experience in reading early modern funerary iconography! The skull and crossbones, and the hourglass are pretty straightforward, but what about the symbol at the top? Looks vaguely astrological or alchemical, but I can’t match it up with anything. Or maybe it’s meant to represent 4-X-M — perhaps a clue to the identity of whoever is buried here, since otherwise there’s no name.

Also adding to the mystical feel: the Star Pyramid, which overlooks the church.

It was built in 1863 by William Drummond as a memorial to civil and religious martyrs … according to the internet. The inscriptions on it don’t have a very secular feel, however, which isn’t surprising since the Drummond family founded the Stirling Tract Enterprise, which provided religious literature to benighted heathens around the world.

Enough dilly-dallying, on to the castle! Now this is what a real gatehouse looks like (take note, Edinburgh Castle). It was built during the reign of James IV, early in the 16th century.

Another view of the gatehouse, from the 17th century bowling green. Like Edinburgh Castle, this was a royal palace as well a military fortress.

Still on the bowling green, but looking the other way, hinting at the magnificent vistas on the south side of the castle. More on those in a bit.

This is the palace begun by James V for his French wife, Mary de Guise, but finished by her after his death in 1542. The interior is being restored to how it would have looked in the 16th century — at the moment it’s pretty bare, but there are panels explaining the work of the archaeologists and restorers.

One of the stone figures guarding the palace, dirk in hand.

The Chapel Royal, built in 1594 — though in modern times it was a canteen for the soldiers stationed here! The decorations are reconstructed, not original.

The Great Hall (there’s always a Great Hall! though this is a big one, bigger than the one at Edinburgh Castle) dating from the start of the 16th century.

A little mermaid, part of a decoration over one of the Great Hall’s windows. (There’s a griffin as well.)

Inside the hall, with a German school group, I think they were. Check out the hammerbeam roof. The Army used the hall as barracks from the Napoleonic Wars up until 1964. The Navy was here too, in 1594 — well, not really, but to celebrate the christening of Prince Henry in the new Chapel Royal, a seafood was brought in on a wooden ship, complete with masts 40 feet high, armed with 36 brass cannon.

This tranquil garden was where the body of the 8th Earl of Douglas was dumped on 22 February 1452, after being murdered by James II and his courtiers, despite being promised safe conduct.

Of less historical interest, this spot is within a few metres of the closest I’ve ever come to the North Pole.

Let’s look at the defences. This is the Grand Battery on the eastern side. The last time Stirling Castle was besieged, in 1746, the guns here knocked out a Jacobite battery and forced Bonnie Prince Charlie to withdraw.

An array of cannon facing east. I think the battery closest is the Grand Battery.

The Nether Bailey on the northern side of the castle. The buildings on the left are powder magazines built in the 19th century. For some reason I didn’t realise that tourists were allowed down in the bailey, but they are, so it’s a pity I didn’t get to walk along the walls.

That the castle sits on top of a craggy rock helped make it more defensible. A lot more defensible, I’d say, judging from this. The castle was besieged many times, and fell more than once. The most famous siege (and fall) was in 1304, when Edward I brought a number of siege engines to bear upon it, including Warwolf, which was (according to a number of not very convincing websites) the largest trebuchet ever made.

The building in the photo is the King’s Old Building, built at the end of the 15th century, though it has changed a lot since then. It currently houses the regimental museum of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise’s), who were garrisoned here for many decades. Their first battle honour was gained at the Cape of Good Hope in 1806; two hundred years later they were absorbed into the Royal Regiment of Scotland.

The other side of the King’s Old Building, looking back towards where the previous photo was taken.

South of the castle, the remains of a formal garden can be seen. The octagonal mound is the King’s Knot, which is about 380 years old (though I’m sure its been landscaped more recently than that, it’s in pretty good nick). It must have been very pretty from up here; I wonder why it hasn’t been restored, Hampton Court-style.

The other advantage to putting castles on top of hills is the view. Back then this would give advance warning of approaching armies. Nowadays it’s picturesque.

Actually, the views from Stirling Castle aren’t so much picturesque as astounding. This is the view to the north-east. The little tower in the lower left is the National Wallace Memorial, built in the 1860s to pre-commemorate Mel Gibson’s fight for Scottish independence. It’s not little at all, as it is 220 feet high. It definitely catches the eye, and I ended up taking a fair few photos with it in frame, such as the previous one (on the left) and the one at the top of the post, probably my favourite of the day.

As should be apparent by now, I can’t go past a war memorial without taking a picture. This one, in the castle car park,² is dedicated to those men of the 1st Battalion, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, who were killed in the Boer War.

Walking back down to the station, I passed through the Valley Cemetery, adjacent to but separate from the churchyard (not sure if it’s connected to the cemetery three photos up, on the other side of the castle … seems like a popular place to go when you’re dead). Mostly 19th century graves, if I recall correctly, including this array of Celtic crosses, and the statue of the togate local worthy in the background.

The ‘Back Walk’ into town runs alongside the remains of the city walls, which go back at least to the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots. They successfully defended the town on more than one occasion, though they didn’t stop Monck in 1651 or the Young Pretender in 1746. Very atmospheric in the late afternoon.

So, although it meant seeing less of Edinburgh, I was glad I made the effort to go to Stirling. One day I’ll come back and venture into the Highlands proper.

Coming up: my last full day in the UK …

1. In Hexham, I overheard a conversation between two men, and I swear only every second word was comprehensible. But then I didn’t need to understand them.
2. They call it ‘the Esplanade’, but that’s what it is …