Robert McNeil

Wit's end

I'VE BEEN back to the Botanic Garden, the "royal" one of that ilk, in Embra toon. I'd forgotten how beautiful it was. You get used to one green space, patronising it with your muddy boots and poetic thoughts, while deserting others that once, too, offered solace and inspiration.

One of the best bits of the Botanic Garden is just to the left after the entrance off Inverleith Row, the roly-poly, Teletubby bit with its little bridge and running water (such a soothing sound).

Just beyond here is where I used to sit regularly, in a verdant cul-de-sac, on a bench beside a lime tree. As usual, the problem of heaven presents itself. You think: "This is just absolutely lovely. Birds, tree, sunshine. I'm very happy here." But, after ten minutes, you get fidgety. Then, shortly afterwards, you leave. I suppose, if the real heaven is somewhere you conjure with your mind, you might make a burger van appear, or a Led Zeppelin tribute band. But here, on Earth – the distinctly dodgy planet – you just have to take what you're given.

At the Garden's cafe, I was given a latte, which was hardly surprising, since that's what I asked for. I wolfed down a jam scone, too, spraying crumbs all across three tables. Thus replenished, I sat on a bench ootside the big hoose and let my coupon soak up the sun. What a glorious day. The city spread out in the distance, from Arthur's Seat in the east to the Pentlands in the south-west, with all manner of spires, castles and so forth in between.

Some Latin-Mediterranean people sat on a bench nearby. I admire their capacity for endless babble. It never stops, and all comes out so quickly. You will think we may sound like that to others. But this is incorrect. We do not.

I approached their bench: "Good evening," I said. "Or, rather, good morning. I admire your capacity for endless babble. To you, the conversational hiatus is unknown, and an odd idea even to contemplate. But contemplate is what I have come here to do and, to that end, I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave."

They said, as one: "Que?"

I said: "What?"

They talked among themselves for a bit, then pointed at my face and laughed, before resuming their babbling. I knew instantly that there was jam on my beard, a fact confirmed when I ran my finger through the foliage. There is no coming back from that sort of thing, so I retired to my bench, and read a book to take my mind off things. Next thing I knew, I was sound asleep. No, that is incorrect. Next thing I knew, I was woken up – by a man bawling about hide-and-seek to his infant son. Why must they bawl so?

"You there, be quiet this instant!" I bawled. "And if you're looking for your boy, he's behind that oak tree. Clearly, the infant has the imagination of a gnat."

Well, that went down like the proverbial metallic balloon, so I moved off to visit some of my other favourite haunts. I was distraught to find that, beside the gate with the long view of the fairytale tower at Fettes, all was destruction and development. God knows what they're planning, but it better be good. Why can't everything be left alone for ever?

My jury is still out about the Queen Mother memorial garden, quite near the massive beech hedge. Why the Queen Mother? Why not Tommy Cooper? Or Wittgenstein?

I'm not a particularly rabid republican, but this stuff leaves me uneasy. It's as if they've taken a bit of bucolic park and made of it a political statement. I don't linger, but wander off to check on my favourite chaenomeles, which is already bursting with red and gold flowers. Here, I see my first bumble bee, but he will not sit still while I try to pat him on the heid.

I like it here. I walk past a duck, who stands perfectly still on the edge of a pond. He's in a dream, so I don't spoil it by trying to pat his heid. Across the way, there's a small, white weather station, the workings of which I shall never understand.

I determine that, if I had more time, I'd devote myself to two things: horticulture and meteorology. Then I think: "Nah, everything gets boring once you start to take it seriously. You're better off not understanding things. It's understanding that causes all the trouble, ken?"

I leave the way I came in, past the big silvery-leaf gates, and rejoin the hustle and bustle.

"That was great," I think. "Really focuses the mind on higher things. Now, where's the nearest Greggs?"