AS I approached what looked like a disappointingly small gathering on Edinburgh's Meadows last Saturday, I thought about turning back.
Not a joiner-in, d'you see? And not fond of crowds, however small. That probably sounds pious or aloof, and I wish it weren't so, but it's the way I'm made. By your 50s, you've a fair idea of what you're like and what you're not, even if you don't like it.
My other reason for contemplating retreat was a professional one. Despite appearances to the contrary, I take my work seriously. I think about it, make judgments and try to do what's right. I know: more piety. What am I on this morning?
Well, I'm on a soul-searching trip, and I shone a torch on that dark interior last Saturday as I waddled towards the independence demo. My professional reason for wanting to turn back concerned the debate in ma heid aboot whether, as a journalist, I ought to get involved like this. Presented with a mast, I dither with my colours and nervously drop the nails.
But, come on, I just do opinion these days, so I've no obligation to pretend at neutrality. Besides, I've emailed my colours to the mast often enough. Independence is the big cause de nos jours. You have to take a stand.
If we don't go for independence in 2014, Scotland will be a flat, dead, defeated place: the only oil-rich country in the world that apparently needs copious subsidy. The jibes at our cowardice will be relentless – and merited.
I suspect even the fainthearts will be disappointed, as will the media fence-sitters calling for ever more debate. They're not interested in the debate. They're interested in debating. Not the same thing. All they see in this great cause is a chance to chair a discussion.
I saw, as I approached the Meadows, a sea of Saltires. Uh-oh. While passionate about independence, I'm no Nationalist. I even avoided someone giving out little national flags for us to wave. It seemed unnecessarily demonstrative for a demonstration.
Again, the fault was mine, personal not political. Later, in the sunshine and in pictures, the colour looked fantastic, imparting joie de vivre, something in which I'm demonstrably deficient.
It created spectacle, as did the sprinkling of Braveheart loons, dressed up in kilts and cloaks. I quailed before these and, once more, thought to run. A man in my position cannot be seen in a medieval re-enactment fantasy.
Some of these chaps were huge and forbidding. But, hey, soon they were all happy and laughing. And I started to pick this up in the atmosphere. Despite my dislike of crowds, I've been going to the football long enough to detect their moods: joy, despair, quiet desperation, hope.
Here was hope and, more than that, real life, faces you could put to names, keyboard warriors coming out into the sunlight. What did I want anyway? A crowd of mumbling introverts in navy anoraks and light blue jeans? A crowd of me?
And the crowd was starting to swell. As the march reached Princes Street Gardens, others had joined it. The numbers game has subsequently caused much ire. The police put the attendance at 5000. The marchers said 12,000. The truth lies somewhere in between. I'd put it at 7503, one end of a decent-sized footer stadium.
At Princes Street, there was also opposition: three neds in hoods with crushed, tat-shop Union Flags. Nobody knew who they were. The Scottish Defence League? Something of that ilk. The dark side of Scotland, perhaps.
They couldn't spoil the mood, particularly after one was arrested. This was a day for families and for cordial relations with the cops. Compare and contrast with Greece the other day. The difference is that we were marching for, not against, something.
At present, I fear the worst for 2014: victory for the defeatists. But this is all about the triumph of hope over fear. And my own fear that the fearties will win was eased just a little by the colour, costumes and laughter of a demo in the sun.
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