Bothwell is a small, yet somehow sprawling, red sandstoney sort of
place. When you look at a map you'd hardly think a small town squeezed
in between Hamilton and the giant engulfing organism that is Glasgow
could ever have its own identity, but it does. As you stand and stare at
the old church, marvelling at the utter beauty of a four-panel mosaic
memorial, you find yourself thinking, 'Yeh - this feels nice. Bothwell's
My 1920s guidebook tells me the church was founded in 1398 by Archibald
the Grim, a man who clearly wasn't in the habit of smiling too often. It
also tells me that, 'within, the sedilia are notable.' I don't know
about you, but I've never heard of sedilia. It is a word that has the
sound of a beastie about it, some Doctor Who thingy that scuttles about,
frequently bounding from a dark wall crevice to haul someone away,
kicking and screaming. Perhaps that's why Archibald was so grim: the place
was hotching with sedilia. Perhaps in the old days their lives were
blighted by swarms of sedilia running about, so many that they set traps
for them, and maybe even ate those they caught. Perhaps sedilia-on-toast
was a medieval delicacy.
As I scampered around the musty old interior,
ever cautious of creeping things,
I found someone to ask. 'Sedilia,' he replied, 'are seats for the
'Hmm,' I thought to myself. 'I think he's hiding something.'
As I left I heard a noise coming from a deep crack in the wall.
'Run for your lives,' I shouted to a couple of visitors. 'It's another sedilia!'