The sense of moment is palpable. Never have we seen so many people focused on the constitution of our nation.
The questions of currency, defence and our place in the world are being debated in the street. Aspiration and the emotional appeal of self-determination are at their highest peak and being countered by calls for logical analysis.
As we edge towards Thursday’s vote, we can be in no doubt that we are making history.
That burden of history and responsibility for the future weighed on me last week at the top of Kinnoull Hill. I stood there with my daughter and my mother, three generations of a family deep rooted in the east of Scotland.
Although I have walked up there hundreds of times and spent hours picking out Munros from the mountain indicator, I had never noticed the plaque on an adjacent cairn. This recorded Lord Dewar’s gifting of the hill to Perth. It sets out the area’s contribution to shaping our present. It reminds us of Perth’s past place as capital of Scotland and seat of parliament. It lists Bruce’s battles in the wars of independence, Methven and Bannockburn.
The plaque points to Denmarkfield, where an army of Scots routed the Danes. The ancient crowning place of Scottish kings at Scone is within walking distance and the old royal palace of Falkland is just 12 miles away.
It felt like one of the many synchronistic moments I have experienced as I have wrestled with which way to vote.
Perhaps it is wrong to be influenced by coincidental links but, sometimes, logic’s allure is dull.
The most significant example of synchronicity came very early last Thursday. I was about to step into the shower, when I heard what sounded like a drum beating in the garden. I found it was our rabbit Flopsy thumping her hutch. As I watched, she rose on her hind legs, threw her head back to expose her teeth and clawed the wire mesh. She looked like a lion rampant clamouring for freedom.
Despite just wearing shorts, I dashed out to release her into her run. Mission accomplished, I sprinted towards the house. But as I looked back, I noticed, to my horror, that the rabbit had escaped and was bounding about the garden.
I had no option but to pursue her and, in my state of undress, was running about the garden shouting Flopsy. Each time I pounced, she wriggled free. No father wants to tell his children he has lost their rabbit, so I soldiered on.
When I thought my embarrassment could get no worse, Flopsy turned direction and squeezed under the fence into the front garden. But, in that moment, the athleticism of youth returned to me and I hurdled the fence, nearly clearing it, and emerged like an ancient Olympian on to the main road.
This was too much for Flopsy. She turned tail and headed back to her hutch.
So much for synchronicity.
It is logic for me from now on.