Layout and Location - The Stones and the Stars: Building Scotland's Newest Megalith - page 152

visit and immediately acquired the name of 'Dead Man's Gulch.'
(“Do you think they'll hold fertility rites up here after we build a
circle, Duncan?” “Of course, John, why should they stop now?”)
It was in this mood that we re-established our spot by taking a
quick bearing on 'Walker's Tomb,' as we had all come to call it.
After Gavin took the panorama, of course, the site should be fixed
forever, since even a few feet of a difference would alter the rela-
tive bearings of near and distant buildings. Gavin therefore set up
his tripod over a stone embedded in the ground on the line from
'Walker's Tomb,' and John ceremonially scratched a star on the
stone to identify it for the future.
No sooner was this done, and Gavin barely started on taking
the panoramic shots, than an extraordinary black cloud like some-
thing out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind came boiling over
the western horizon and hurtled towards us as if aimed. No bigger
than a man's hand when first seen, it was overhead in little more
than a minute and sending down a ferocious downpour that covered
the park and nothing else. Declaring 'I've started so I'll finish,' in
the best Mastermind manner, Gavin refused to pack up, and we had
to whip off our jackets to protect the camera - and also young Sarah,
Gavin and Ruth's daughter, whose mother had not come out pre-
pared for anything of this violence. The storm swept over us as fast
as it had come, and Gavin did indeed finish - the menacing shadow
could be seen in both the west and the east when the panorama was
assembled (Fig. 5.15 ) . As we retreated, soaked, it was suggested that
'Mr. Walker' be treated with more respect in future.
Finding out whether we did have the name right might be a first
step, and on the next fine day when I was in the area, I went back
to check. Walking into Sighthill Cemetery, even in bright sunlight,
is a rather different experience from driving. It's a long way, with
unrelieved perspectives of tombstones that weathering and pollu-
tion had turned mostly to a uniform and sinister black. The maca-
bre atmosphere was enhanced when I rounded a particularly large
tomb up on the summit and found myself among a jovial company
of Hell's Angels having a picnic. Their bikes, all chrome and teeth,
were parked among the tombstones, and the riders spread out on
the graves with girlfriends, cans of lager and packets of chips, their
studded jackets, emblazoned with skulls, swastikas, “Death” and
“Heil Hitler,” draped over the gravestones around. I passed among