Policy Research Media Morhamburn

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

As autumn encroached, my time at Morhamburn drew to a close. Sitting in the slowly emptying office, watching the sun burn lower and lower over Arthur’s Seat, I contemplated the past month. I had learnt some valuable life lessons. I had mastered note-taking, spread-sheets and the cafetière, forming a potent arsenal of personal skills. More importantly, I had been given access to a different world. 

Holyrood may be just down the road for most city-dwellers, but spatially it is very distinct. The entrance, guarded by rows of thick swinging doors, security checkpoints and metal detectors, discourages the casual passer-by. Once inside, the codes, rituals and language of the Holyrood village alienate the outsider. Pinstripe suited men stride purposely, flaunting their official passes. They laugh knowingly in conversion, and talk loudly into mobile phones. Only they are allowed to eat the forbidden fruit of the refreshment trolley. However, I had been given license to walk amongst them.

The more I observed, the more the air of intimidation wore off. What was being discussed day on day was not absurdist legalese, focus-group nonsense or ivory tower abstraction. It was, on the whole, the essential questions that society must answer. The committees and their endless paper trails seemed unnecessarily complicated, but it became obvious they offered opportunity for debate, the crucial ‘checks and balances’ of our system. I began to realise that the Parliament is not actually such a closed-shop. Blinded by my fear, I had previously only seen ruddy-faced councillors and hurried looking MPs. In fact, thousands of members of the public visit Holyrood every day, to sit in the cafe, to visit the exhibits, to take in Chamber business or sit in on Committees. I realised I was not alone. Hopefully I will return soon… 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream.

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?