Without the clip-clop of cavalry or neigh of a prince of Windsor, the state opening of the Scottish parliament went off this week. The ancient Royal Mile echoed to nothing but the soft-shoe shuffle of an American tourist.

Make no mistake about it. Those within the parliament building made decisions affecting you and me. But like a ripple in grey, still water, their judgements washed over the majority of their countrymen and women who did not know and did not care about their deliberations.

Sewage and its disposal may have been discussed. Do not mock — try disposing of your own sewage and you will see the value of a domestic parliament. Crime was ever present, in discussion if not in reality. Jack McConnell is against it. So much is he against it that I had my inch-long Swiss army knife confiscated on entry. McConnell talked about sin as if he were a Presbyterian minister. But was anybody listening, or even taking part in the debate? Was Wendy Alexander there to light up the chamber like a chandelier (did ever such a small candle burn so bright)? Did Alec Neil, the wittiest man in parliament, speak, or was he at his tailor getting another of his shiny suits? Was Lord James Douglas-Hamilton there, the marquis of this and that and the parliament’s nicest person? Was there a liberal in the house? Was there a long-enduring fence for him or her to sit upon with such discomfort that the iron entered his or her soul? Was there? Few who weren’t there in the chamber will ever know.

Outside the eloquent silence of our parliament no drum sounded. No colonel with a chest full of pride and medals strode up and down inspecting his troops. Down from the castle marched no company of infantry. No pipes played. No boots sounded on the causeway. No commands. No glittering swords. No subaltern proud in his new uniform. No mother watching him. Why? Once, long ago, when the high court went to Aberdeen, the traffic in Union Street was stopped. A guard of honour was inspected by the judge, sentries with bayonets were posted outside the court. So it was in Perth and Inverness and every country town where the high court sat. In Glasgow the judges came on to the bench to a fanfare of trumpets. But at Holyrood? Nothing.

Why is this so? We need our regiments and they need us. The King’s Own Scottish Borderers, that most ancient of regiments, was created to defend a parliament. Why were they not there in all their pride and glory to mark the opening of this, the newest and most powerful institution in our land? Those who have trailed a gun for George Bush and Tony Blair should have been on the space outside our parliament house to present arms to George Reid and to us all.

Do not make the mistake of thinking this is mere frippery, for where there is ceremony, there is power. Imagine a platoon on foot, banners flying and pipes playing as they marched down the Royal Mile to be inspected and to mount guard as our representatives debated our future. If this sounds extravagant, so what? We have no queen in a gilded coach, but occasional glittering spectacle may come from fierce pride of regimental ceremonial.

Behind the Scottish parliament is a narrow close where the Scottish Poetry Library has its home. I went in there shouting for some verse to take away the desperate practicality of our new parliament.

What I found was The Brave by GK Chesterton, which makes a plea for passionate behaviour above the dreariness of orthodoxy. The poet is in no doubt — it is those with spirit who have soul; the sane and sensible are miserable by comparison.

They seemed fitting sentiments. I passed out of the library and as I did, I thought I heard from the other side of Arthur’s Seat a lone piper playing a pibroch. He was playing Lament for the Children.

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