DOWN AND OUT IN EDINBURGH

Alexander McCall Smith mourns the loss of the polite and purposeful nomadic vagrants of the good old days

Mr McCall Smith mourns the loss of tramps

Tramps aren’t what they used to be. Indeed, as far as I can make out, there are no tramps any more – or at least not in the sense in which Vladimir and Estragon from Waiting for Godot are tramps.

In what we fondly refer to as the old days, that halcyon period when any of us were at school or university, most Scottish cities had a few tramps who actually tramped. They moved about, going from that legendary starting point, A, and heading for that well-known goal, B. They were never static; you never saw a tramp standing around or, a fortiori, sitting on the pavement. In fact, in those old days, sitting on the pavement was an offence under the terms of the Burgh Police (Scotland) Act 1892, a piece of legislation that set out to make what it called ‘populous places’ safe for respectable people (known as ‘the lieges’).

The lieges were easily shocked, but were protected – and still are, to an extent – by a common law offence known as Breach of the Peace. Breach of the Peace was defined as conduct likely to cause fear and apprehension in others. That covered a multitude of sins, ranging from singing loudly in the streets, making threatening or offensive gestures, and general public drunkenness. There used to be a lot of all of these things, and in some places there still is. Edinburgh is full of it in the summer months. Social attitudes have changed, though, and today conduct that would have clearly been a breach of the peace in the past is now considered to be installation art.

Some people, of course, were a walking breach of the peace, and would regularly find themselves in court for disturbing public equanimity. These days it is more difficult to attract the attention of the police for that sort of thing. Indeed, there are those who claim that these days it is difficult to attract the attention of the police for anything.

That is not the fault of the police, who do their job extremely well; they have problems with resources, which is another way of saying that there are not enough of them. They have also had to spend a lot of their time being reorganised, which is a universal problem in Scottish society. Most of us are being reorganised in one way or another by the authorities, and it is quite timeconsuming. Those who have not yet been reorganised should take note: reorganisation will eventually catch up with you.

Back to tramps. Tramps were subject to vagrancy laws – an oppressive collection of laws that made it possible for itinerants to be prosecuted for not having visible means of support (a wonderful phrase that could be applied to drunkards in extremis). Proper tramps, though, were largely tolerated. They moved about in a purposeful way and did not unduly alarm the lieges.

In Edinburgh, the Grassmarket was the spiritual home of the tramps. They were not, however, the same people as those unfortunates who stayed in the various hostels that flourished under the stern gaze of the Castle. That was the Scottish

equivalent of Skid Row, and was a sad manifestation of the ravages of alcohol and social exclusion. Tramps might pass through the Grassmarket, but did not spend all their time there.

There were two famous tramps in Edinburgh in the nineteen sixties and seventies. One was a very tall man who wore a Homburg hat and a long black overcoat. He was a distinguishedlooking man, who could be mistaken – at a distance – for an advocate or a judge. As students, we called him the Professor of Greek, and there was an apocryphal story that this is what he had been. He was sometimes to be seen in the company of another, even more famous, tramp whom we called the Glasgow Road Tramp. He got that name as when he asked for the price of a cup of tea he often mentioned that he had just come in off the Glasgow Road.

He was a genial man, with the good natural manners that old-style tramps used to have. His clothing was distinctive, its most notable feature being a tin helmet of the sort worn by soldiers in the recent hostilities between the Government of the United Kingdom and the Government of Germany. His tin hat was lined with newspapers, which were also stuffed into the Wellington boots that he wore. He was an entirely benign figure and much liked in the city. He was always walking about in a purposive manner and on many days could be seen heading west along Princes Street, presumably on his way to the Glasgow Road. These were kenspeckle characters and people were, on the whole, kind to them.

Nobody walks around any longer. The tramps have gone. Everybody has become sedentary. The urban landscape has changed. The lieges are inside, watching television and streaming videos. Nothing causes them apprehension now. Or does it? Outrage flourishes, but takes a different expression, and online. That is another story altogether.

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The tramps have gone. Everybody has become sedentary