NEWS that Edinburgh is to get its first new public park of the 21st century is most welcome.
In an urban world where every spare bit of space is eyed up for its building value, the idea that a green area should be preserved, and even enhanced, makes one wonder if there is a god at Edinburgh City Council.
And who would not wish to flit among the flora at a place called Buttercup Farm Park? Despite the name's connection with the genus Ranunculus, the site was once known as Hen City.
The farm at Drumbrae covered 86 acres and on these sat up to 200,000 hens. Andrew Ewing, the Christian owner, used to give away all eggs laid on a Sunday to local hospitals and charities. That came to up to five millions eggs a year, or an omelette the size of Wales.
More recently, the area was used for school playing fields and so, if you'll pardon my French, les millions d'oeufs were replaced by les muddied oafs.
Enthrallingly, the etymology of "park" is related to pen or paddock, hence field and, in the parlance of Scottish football managers, football pitch.
When Hibs were going through their now-defunct period of beautiful, passing football, I used to enjoy shouting: "Oh, for pity's sake, just boot it up the park!" You should have seen the looks I got. Today, teams only boot the ball up the park in the last couple of minutes when they need to do something desperate and unusual — like score a ruddy goal.
But I digress. The goal of Buttercup Farm Park is to provide respite for the masses from their daily toil of sitting in front of screens. Parks have everything computers lack. Slopes, trees, ponds, lawns, statuary. All of these are good things.
An early memory of mine is of lying on the grass in a park looking up at a clear blue sky. Always been a dreamer, d'you see?
Soon, if spring is actually coming, I will make my annual visit to see the cherry trees at Edinburgh's Braidburn Valley Park. Like the Japanese, with whom I have otherwise little in common, I revere cherry blossom for its ephemeral beauty.
I do not, on the other hand, revere cyclists, and wish I could keep these out of the park. Their grim expressions, pointless urgency, macho aggression and self-righteous superiority are simply unacceptable.
Indeed, the entrance to my Arcadia would feature a sign saying: "No bicycles, portable telephones, shorts, baldness, or these daft ball-lobbing things that demented dog-owners brandish." Perhaps I am being unreasonable. Good.
As Satan once memorably said: "Et in arcadia ego." And I am in Arcadia. He's another one that needs a good boot up the bahookey. You can bet, these days, that he goes about on a bike.
Looking through the prospectus for Buttercup Farm Park, where work begins this summer, thankfully I see no facilities for Satanists. There is, however, mention of an outdoor gym, which comes a pretty close second. Hell's bells, a park's no place to work up a sweat.
Parks are for poets, not the leisure-amenity set who can't enjoy something for its own sake. Can they not contemplate? Must they muster their sinews, even in pastoral places?
Well, nothing's perfect, I suppose. As long as they stay away from me. There are also plans for tree-lined avenues and meadow areas at Buttercup Farm Park, and these press my buttons more than open-air bicep-inflaters.
Parks are urban lungs, a place where suffocating city folk might breathe. Utterly urban and utterly rural existences are unbalanced and false. Gardens, parks and suburban woodlands provide the perfect mix, letting your yin hang oot with your yang and, arguably, vice-versa.
I wish Buttercup Farm Park every success and hope it becomes a place of peace. May I also recommend the Japanese friendship garden at Edinburgh's Lauriston Castle? The daffodils nearby are a delight, and it is my understanding that cyclists are discouraged.
However, there is no mention of bald people or citizens with injudicious tattoos, and I shall write to the council for the 17th time seeking clarification on this matter.
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