Trip to Edinburgh
Edinburgh is the northernmost point I’ve ever touched.
In this place, the power of light suddenly becomes clear and visible.
A light continuously moving because of the banks of clouds, drapes dragged by the wind.
Without light, the earth, the mountains and the North Sea look like an infinite monochromatic expanse, a dark and indistinct watercolour brushstroke in which the dusky buildings camouflage superbly.
But, with light, the shadows become vigorous, and in their endless and inconstant game of full and emptiness, the mountains seem giants on the verge of collapsing.
At sunset, hot reds stoke the brown brick.
Scotland appears to be a turbulent, unresolved land, a giant worn-out by the winter rigour, yet mumbling noisily from the dark cave where it’s resting.
Edinburgh shows an acrid language and an austere armour.
An immense castle is perched on the highest peak of the city; opposite a Roman-style temple of modern craft – as if it evoked the dark and crude period when the Roman Empire set Scotland as its furthest boundary; the local sterling, from which stares a dark warrior in medieval armour, who stubbornly raises his head at the smiling Queen of England.
A cordial but fierce land, a land that doesn’t bend the knees, a land waiting.