A few days later I stood atop Arthur's Seat at midnight after hacking my way through some particularly carnivorous brambles and gazed at twinkling Edinburgh spread beneath me like a tapestry. Night-lit, the castle rose on its shoulder of rock from the center, dominating the city and drawing the eye to its ancient lines, and my Cameron blood sang. History suffused the soil onto which I eventually sank, enthralled by nothing more than the glow of the royal city, the smell of heather, and the squeak of bats as they dipped and swooped in the dark.
I remember treading carefully inside the cool dusk of Westminster Abbey, craning my head to admire the soaring cathedral ceiling and just as quickly lowering my eyes to my feet, lest I should unwittingly walk disrespectfully upon someone's grave. It is a difficult proposition, in that building, to move far without doing so, but I did my best. Some stones were worn so smooth that the names of those whose remains they marked could no longer be read. On others, the engraved letters were still clear as day, etched deep in the stone and sparking a remembrance not lightly cast away.
Requiescat in pace
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