The promise, whispered in the fading light of my first, somewhat ill-prepared visit to East St Clement’s, has been kept.

Following on from my first rainy day visit here which you can read about, I am back.

The return journey to the heart of Footdee, camera bag heavier this time with both digital and the more considered weight of my film apparatus, unfolded under a sky washed with the purest April blue. The sun, a generous artist, painted every weathered surface of the church and its silent city of the departed with a clarity that had been absent on my first, more hurried exploration. This time, armed with a modicum of knowledge gleaned from belated research, I felt less like a casual observer and more like an invited guest, finally able to truly see the stories etched in the granite and whispered on the sea breeze.

The imposing form of East St Clement’s, its clock tower standing sentinel over the low-slung roofs of Fittie, held a different resonance under this benevolent light. The multiple pinnacles that had merely registered as architectural details on my first pass now seemed like fingers reaching towards that expansive sky. The very stones of the church, built in 1828 on a site sacred for centuries before, seemed to exhale the accumulated years, the joys and sorrows of the generations who had sought solace and community within its walls.

My primary goal on this second visit was to rectify the omissions of the first, to seek out the details that had remained stubbornly invisible without the guiding light of context. The “large Granite Coffin,” the tomb of William Duthie, the prominent Merchant and Shipowner whose family name graces one of Aberdeen’s most cherished green spaces, was no longer an anonymous mass of stone. Standing before it, I felt a tangible connection to the civic history of the city, a reminder that even in this quiet corner of Footdee, the threads of Aberdeen’s broader narrative were tightly woven. To have walked past it so obliviously before now felt akin to skipping a vital chapter in a beloved book.

Similarly, the names that had merely been etched into weathered headstones during my first visit now carried a newfound significance. To stand near the final resting place of David Grant, the composer of the hauntingly beautiful “Crimond,” a psalm tune that echoes through the very soul of Scotland, evoked a quiet sense of reverence. The melody, so deeply ingrained in our cultural consciousness, felt almost palpable in the stillness of the churchyard. And the memorials to the Hall family, the architects of the renowned Alexander Hall Shipbuilders, now spoke not just of individual lives, but of Aberdeen’s enduring relationship with the sea, a legacy etched in the very fabric of Footdee. This second visit transformed the graveyard from a collection of stone markers into a rich tapestry of interconnected lives and legacies.

Yet, amidst this newfound appreciation for the historical weight of East St Clement’s, another layer of visual narrative began to assert itself under the bright spring sun. The very beauty of the day served to highlight the poignant decay that time and the relentless North Sea air had wrought. Flaking stone on ancient graves revealed the raw vulnerability of these memorials, the slow but inexorable return to the earth. The ironwork of the window gates and frames, once perhaps a proud barrier, now bore the vibrant orange scars of rust, a testament to the unyielding power of the elements. This visible deterioration, this gentle surrender to time, added a layer of melancholic beauty to the scene.

And then, juxtaposed against this backdrop of aged stone and weathered iron, were the vivid signs of enduring connection. A newly laid wreath, its colours still vibrant against the muted tones of the older memorials, spoke of recent grief and the unbroken chain of remembrance. Nearby, a strikingly new gravestone caught my eye, its inscription a detailed chronicle of a family’s enduring presence in this burying ground: “1894 The Family Burying ground of William Walker fish-curer, Aberdeen also Elspet M. Walker died February 26th 1961 aged 65 years beloved wife of George Walker died December 8th 1977 aged 83 years beloved father of Elizabeth A. Henderson died March 24th 2022 aged 87 years beloved wife of William J. Henderson died 30th June 2023 aged 90 years.”

The sheer detail of this recent inscription, spanning generations and meticulously recording the dates of passing, was both moving and slightly perplexing. Knowing that the church itself has been closed since 1987, the final service held on a day now relegated to the annals of local history, the continued use of its burial ground sparked a quiet contemplation. Surely, these recent additions signify the scattering of cremated remains, a final coming to rest alongside beloved ancestors in this place steeped in their family history? It’s a poignant thought, this enduring connection to a physical space even after its primary purpose has faded into memory.

The contrast between the visible decay and these vibrant tokens of remembrance served to deepen my understanding of East St Clement’s. It is not merely a historical artefact, a relic of a bygone era. It stays a living, breathing space for the community of Footdee, a place where the past and the present intertwine in tangible ways. The silence of the churchyard is not one of abandonment, but rather a profound stillness punctuated by the whispers of history and the quiet acts of remembrance.

This second visit, undertaken with a more informed gaze, allowed me to truly appreciate the layers of history and human experience embedded within the fabric of East St Clement’s. The bright sunlight, far from simply illuminating the physical structures, served to highlight both the enduring beauty and the inevitable fragility of time. The stories I had only begun to glimpse on my first visit now unfolded with a richer texture, revealing the interconnectedness of lives lived, lost, and remembered within this unique corner of Aberdeen.

The weight of centuries, which I had felt abstractly before, now pressed down with a more personal resonance. These are not just names on stones; they are the echoes of lives intertwined with the sea, with the fortunes and hardships of a close-knit community. They are the ancestors of those who still call Aberdeen home, their stories a vital part of the enduring identity of this remarkable place.

As I packed away my cameras, the weight of the film camera feeling particularly significant after a day spent in more deliberate contemplation, I knew that this second visit was far from the final chapter in my exploration of East St Clement’s. There are still more stories to uncover, more nuances to see, particularly when I return with the slower, more contemplative process of film photography. But this time, I leave with a deeper sense of connection, a feeling that I have finally begun to truly see the silent city by the sea, not just with my eyes, but with a heart informed by its rich and enduring history. The homework, it seems, has made all the difference.

Regards

Alex