Apathy sets the tone of Destiny

Already, the day had an impossible air about it. The Stone of Destiny was coming home. Roads were sealed, the crush barriers were in place, the media corps was gathering. All that was missing was the thronging populace. The foot of the Royal Mile was virtually deserted as departure-time loomed.

We watched, impressed, as a senior Marine officer twirled a wooden device to measure the precise number of paces between the servicemen and women lining the Royal Mile.

We read, agog, the list of titled dignitaries who would participate in the proceedings. No personal slight is intended to Major Sir Hew Hamilton-Dalrymple, but does modern-day Scotland actually need someone called Gold Stick? Or a Hereditary Bearer of the Royal Banner of Scotland (the Earl of Dundee), or Hereditary Bearer of the National Flag of Scotland (the Master of Lauderdale, acting on behalf of his father the Earl of Lauderdale), or a Lord High Constable (the Earl of Erroll)? And we concurred: this was a very odd event with a highly-ambivalent atmosphere. It was, by measures, good-natured tempered with a dash of hostility. It was touched by a sense of history wrapped in bafflement. There was pride behind a veneer of cynicism, or perhaps vice versa.

The visual metaphor was in the clash of the various garbs - the gilt-laden office bearers; the bizarre outfits of the Queen's Bodyguard (tip: black camouflage and balaclavas inspire more confidence); Michael Forsyth as tweedy laird; or the young Nat loonies in full Braveheart gear.

But in those early hours of Destiny Day apathy reigned. One young mother was spotted with her bairns awaiting the arrival of the Stone. Was she a proud patriot who had waited years for this moment? Er, no. Her husband was a soldier, one of the 1200 servicemen and women involved, and he expected her to be there to see him participate.

Surely, once the Stone itself appeared, the occasion would become more charged? A converted Army Land Rover was third in the convoy to emerge from the palace gates, but this was a false alarm, bearing the Saltire and Lion Rampant

flags, and their hereditary bearers, rather than the Stone.

Then, as fifth vehicle in the convoy, came another open-topped Land Rover, aka the Stonemobile. On it, beneath a curved canopy of clear plastic, resting on a plinth and in the subtle beam of specially-mounted spotlights, was the Stone of Scone, the Coronation Stone, the Stone of Destiny,

the Stone so good they named

it thrice.

``It's smaller than I remember, and redder,'' was the verdict of someone who saw it during its last sojourn north of the Border. Film producer Lynda Myles was a toddler

in Arbroath when it was handed back there four months after its liberation from Westminster by four Glasgow University students at Christmas time in 1950.

The smallness may be explained by the fact that everything we see as young children seems bigger at the time, the redness by the recent cleaning and careful lighting carried out by Historic Scotland.

She has felt an emotional attachment to the Stone ever since seeing it that day, and is soon to produce a film based on the account of one of the liberators of 1950, Ian Hamilton. ``It was one of the major things of my childhood,'' she said. ``It was very nice to see it back here, but I did think the trappings of the ceremony seemed very Anglicised.'' As the procession made its way up a sparsely-lined Canongate, Scottish Secretary Michael Forsyth, grinning uneasily out from the limousine he shared with the Lord High Constable and Gold Stick, must have been alarmed by the lack of public interest.

However, between John Knox's House and the Tron the crowd began to thicken, and between St Giles's and the castle the pavements were packed. There were muted cheers for the Stone, and sporadic booing for Mr Forsyth as the politician who secured its return, the jeering most marked as he arrived at the High Kirk.

There, the Moderator of the General Assembly, the Right Rev John McIndoe, told the 800 invited guests: ``The Stone is a venerable object by reason of its associations and its symbolism. As regards its age and origin it keeps its own proper secret.''

It was for the nation akin to regaining something treasured such as a lost wedding ring. ``The recovery of the object does not change anything in itself but it serves to make us think,'' he said.

He added: ``The recovery of this ancient symbol of the Stone cannot but strengthen the proud distinctiveness of the people of Scotland.

``It will in addition bear a silent and steady witness to the mutuality of interest between those who govern and those who are governed, united in the task of promoting the welfare of the land and the destination of its people.''

From St Giles' the procession made its way up to the Castle, four Tornado fighters from 43 Squadron screaming low overhead as it crossed

the Esplanade.

Inside the Great Hall of the Castle, Prince Andrew made a brief and somewhat uneasy speech handing over care, but not ownership, of the Stone to the Commissioners of the Scottish Regalia and Mr Forsyth responded as Keeper of the Great Seal, calling it ``rich in mythology and history''.

Meanwhile the ancient Coronation Stone of Scottish kings sat pinkly on what looked for all the world like a Habitat

coffee table.

Three of the 1950 liberators looked on - Kay Matheson, Alan Stuart, and Gavin

Vernon all welcoming the legitimate return of the

Stone, while co-conspirator Ian Hamilton preferred an engagement at Aberdeen University.

The 21-gun salute was sounded from the ramparts, HMS Newcastle responded from the Firth of Forth, and the great and good departed as locals and tourists wandered on the Esplanade seeking meaning in such an

odd set of images and

circumstances.

On reflection, at the end of the day, the pomp and ceremony had jarred somewhat. Perhaps dour, Northern Calvinists don't warm so readily to such pageantry, or perhaps the symbols struck the wrong notes. If the odd wee ceremony at Coldstream had been an odd marriage of Checkpoint Charlie and Clochemerle, then St Andrew's day in the capital was pure Gilbert and Sullivan.

It certainly seemed the Moderator was right. The occasion did make us think - about which land, which people, which destination. Outside, and en route up Castlehill, many of those who are governed continued to jeer he who governs.

The Union Flag in the souvenir shop in the shadow of the Castle was upside down. Whether the whole affair will be a matter for celebration or distress for the Government, whether Mr Forsyth will have brought off mission impossible, will become apparent only after the governed have passed judgment at the ballot box next spring.