Dunadd, ‘fort of the Add’, is a natural rocky hill
fort topped by a citadel that rises 54 metres up from Moine Mhor, the expanse of bog that carpets the southern end of the Kilmartin Glen
in Argyll in western Scotland, and through which the River Add threads its way
to the Atlantic.
Excavations in the 1980s found evidence that Dunadd was
serving as a fort in Iron-Age times, over 2,000 years ago.
But it is
the site’s re-use as a royal power centre by the Gaelic kings of the Dál Riata
in the 6th to 9th centuries for which it has become internationally renowned.
I was looking at a photo of a trio of lovely ladies
standing on an ancient man-shaped figure carved into the bedrock of the summit
of Dunadd.
(Pretty impressive photo, I must admit. Three strong, proud women, like the daughters of Katy Elder, disproving the ancient philosopher's suggestion that "the pulchrum and the utile are dealt out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their combination".)
(Pretty impressive photo, I must admit. Three strong, proud women, like the daughters of Katy Elder, disproving the ancient philosopher's suggestion that "the pulchrum and the utile are dealt out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their combination".)
And I was thinking, once again, of the permanence of rocks.
Of
how the big stone man was stood upon 16 centuries ago by the Kings of Dalriada
in the pomp of their Ozymandias moments, impregnable on their dun.
How
grand they were, how important.
Yet only the stone man remains, at one with my beach
rocks, unmoved by the Kings of Dalriada or my beautiful girls.
(Shelley's
"Ozymandias" has been with me since my schooldays, and is frequently
brought back to mind by tediously repetitive displays of hubris and futility.
It should be recited at the opening of parliament each day.)
It should be recited at the opening of parliament each day.)