Near the center of Edinburgh stands the tomb of the unread writer. It lies a stone’s throw from the castle with its orbiting birds, high on an extinct volcanic crag; the Old Town with its wynds and tenements; and the pleasant public gardens that replaced a stinking loch full of centuries of detritus. The tomb is an impressive sight, a fine example of the northern Gothic style that gives Edinburgh (“a mad god’s dream,” as the poet Hugh McDiarmid put it) such an enigmatic quality. It was built in the Victorian era, over a decade after the death of the figure it was dedicated to: Sir Walter Scott, whose carrara marble statue, with his dog Maida by his side, huddles under its arches, sheltering from the chill North Sea wind.
