How I learned my relative was Easter Rising leader James Connolly, by Ian Bell
The speeches, as I remember, were not enthralling. Perhaps that was just me. A 12-year-old’s patience for solemn perorations is finite and Edinburgh’s Cowgate, that smear of high blackened walls and greasy cobbles, was never a byword for momentous occasions. My memories of a Saturday in June 1968 are of boredom, a badge, and nagging bemusement.