This cozy castle (not quite as much of a paradox as you might think) nestles in a
tributary glen to the Great one. The Great Glen, I mean. Pen of the Loch Ness
monster (or not..).
Oh Lor, I’m
drunk from eating haggis. You wouldn’t believe how much whiskey a blob of
haggis can take; more than me, that’s for sure. Traditional or not, we doused the haggis in whiskey and set it alight like a christmas pudding, then poured more of the 'fire water' on to it afterwards, for good measure I suppose. The main man did a fantastic
job of being thrown into the deep and squidgy end, it being suggested at the
last moment that he read out Robert Burns’ Address to the Haggis - in Gaelic. With an iPad balanced on his whisky glass
he managed it flawlessly and in an extremely convincing accent. Amazing. I
jumped when he gruesomely stabbed the steaming balloon of offal – apparently it
wasn’t quite dead.
Oh happy to be in
Scotland when such bounty abounds! Chanterelles carpet (or more like ‘rug’) the
woodland nearby. A couple of the guests who are German and proficient in
shrooming bring some back on their way down from the hill. I love the German
name for them – Pfifferling. Much friendlier than ‘Chanterelle’. I’ve never
much liked that name, it sounds too pretentious and French.
This is a stalking
estate and venison is on the menu. The lovely under
keeper presents me with a slab of the most beautiful boned haunch I’ve ever seen.
It’s been well well hung and even he says the fat on it’s exceptional for a
wild stag. I pick some rowanberries and make some jelly to accompany it.
This week is turning
out to be a total Scot-fest. As well as salmon, venison and haggis, rowan, oats
and pfifferling, we’ve had wild blaeberries, grouse stuffed with juniper (the
poor mites had spikey branches complete with green and unripe berries thrust up them while they roasted – the green berries have a softer scent I think), marmalade
bread and butter pudding, Scottish raspberries, wild cranberries and a hive’s
worth of heather honey. One lunchtime I grabbed something for myself a little
less grand, but what could be more Scottish than a smoked salmon and McCoy
crisp roll? I even made (rather smugly) some butteries. These were a total
enlightenment and made croissants seem stuck-up. You make butteries in just the
same way as the French version, but of course with less pomp. And, unlike
‘croissant’, they are what they say on the tin; for butteries are buttery.
Well, half butter and half lard or dripping. Eaten hot, crispy/gooey from the
oven time they are a joy.
There are some
truly stunning sites around here and winding along the small roads, the landscape
and ruins seem all the more poignant with the extraordinary, nonconformist and
utterly cool Glen Lyon blaring out of the wide-open windows. There’s a
specialist Scottish music shop in Beauly and I dug out this album in there. All
the tracks are spellbinding and individual, apparently lamenting the viscous
rage of the Picts and other disputes now stuck in the cold stone of Scottish
history.
I’m a sucker for the
likes of castles and Cairns, and the last two weeks have been rich in history
hunting as well as food. My last stop before England was to see a friend near Loch
Leven. There are several castles around there, but also St Serf’s Island. Monks
built a retreat there in the Middle Ages and set about writing the history of
Scotland, starting at the very beginning with the creation of angels. Doesn’t
that sound pretty? Although I’m sure the reality was anything but.
Here are some
words from Cratinus, for I think he’d be proud of me this month…
“It takes more
than the eating of one brook trout
To make one an
epicure out and out.”
Cratinus, 480 –
423 BC.