Way back in the northern summer of 1994 we were still young enough and malleable enough to do six weeks in Britain in a one litre Ford Fiesta and staying in nothing but B+Bs. It was a tough gig. But one riddled with compensations.
We toured Scotland’s Western Highlands for a couple of those weeks, spending time on the Isle of Skye, and it was here at the close of our last day of exploring this fantastic place (coincidentally on the fiftieth anniversary of the D Day landing) that I was attacked by that legendary beast, the Haggis...
THE HAGGIS – "A small Scottish animal with longer legs on one side, so it can run around the steep hills of the Highlands without falling over." - Ancient Highlands Tour Guide
HAGGIS – "A savoury pudding containing sheep's pluck (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, and simmered for three hours in the animal's stomach." - Ancient Highlands Recipe
SILVER BIRCH WINE – "A medium sweet white made from silver birch sap collected from surrounding woodlands, with a crisp, fruity flavour. Serve with cheese or dessert, but never with haggis." - Ancient Australian Amateur Gourmet
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Mon 6th June 1994
We wander into Dunvegan for a walk around the small town, but there's not much to it so, with the Isles of Lewis and Harris out there in the distance, we head north along another of our map’s narrow dotted-line roads, on to Trumpan at the far end of the Waternish Peninsula, where there’s an old churchyard that’s said to contain a lively story or two.
This led to instant retribution by Clan MacLeod, as it’s said... (cue the fanfare) - taaaah taa tu TAAAAARH - “...the magic fairy flag of the MacLeods was unfurled and MacLeod warriors appeared and caught the McDonalds on the beach below, and slew them to a man...”, which isn’t a bad effort for a band of magic fairies. Which has a tendency to makes you wonder how the Highlands managed to stay populated at all, what with all this slaying and mayhem.
But there’s another story, one that Herself tracked down, that goes with a headstone here in the attached churchyard. It’s about a lady called Rachel, Lady Grange, and it’s a lulu.
The time is late 1600s to mid 1700s.
Rachel was the wife of Lord Grange, a Scottish lawyer with Bonnie Prince Charlie sympathies, but during 25 years of marriage and nine children their marriage became rockier and rockier, so her husband finally took the management (and presumably the income) of a big estate off her, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she discovered he was having more than the odd lattē with a local coffeehouse owner.
So, totally miffed, Rachel “...threatened suicide and to run naked through the streets of Edinburgh...” (presumably not in that order), at the same time reminding her old man that not only did she keep a razor under her pillow but, as her dear old Dad was a convicted murderer, hubbie should also remember whose daughter she was. (And it was these kind of people who ran the country?!)
So, totally miffed, Rachel “...threatened suicide and to run naked through the streets of Edinburgh...” (presumably not in that order), at the same time reminding her old man that not only did she keep a razor under her pillow but, as her dear old Dad was a convicted murderer, hubbie should also remember whose daughter she was. (And it was these kind of people who ran the country?!)
So, don’t mess with Rachel.
But like all good celebs, the Granges had a very nasty little split-up, so she produced letters she claimed were evidence of her old man’s treasonable plottings against the King, and seeing as how she didn’t have access to Facebook, she stood outside his house waving the letter about and shouting obscenities. So Lord G. had her kidnapped. And locked up in a heap of places (including a cave) all over the Highlands. For 13 years. Till she died. Ah, lovely people. Such sweet memories.
Lord G. interred Rachel here in Trumpan churchyard, but then had a second funeral some time later, where a large crowd gathered to watch the burial. Of a coffin filled with turf and stones. No idea why. These were seriously weird people.
Back in the real world, Ourselves’ stomachs are starting to rumble after such a strenuous morning of murder and kidnap, so we zip back through Portree to Kyleakin, and settle into “The Crofters Kitchen” for a bite of late lunch before our last look around Skye.
The guy with the pad and pen comes to take our order. We exchange niceties. He waits patiently. Herself is still perusing the menu, but I’m already ready and here I throw all sanity out the window – which isn’t at all like me. (Yeah - right!)
I’m in Scotland. I have an adventure-some stomach. I order the “Haggis & Oatmeal Biscuits”, with a glass of wine listed as “Silver Birch Dry White”, and for dessert, a local specialty of cream, honey, oatmeal and whisky, and a “Gaelic Coffee” to finish, which is made with whisky. And double cream. The guy writes it all down. Raises one eyebrow.
Herself genteely orders the “Shepherds Pie”, said to be done with very tasty lamb and smooth-as-velvet mash, and a bog standard white coffee. The guy jots it down, smiles to himself, taps his pencil on the pad, and pointedly murmurs to her – “Good choice...”
Hers is delicious by all accounts, but mine? – the Haggis is just heavenly, as fat and as round as a Raphael cherub and full of magic stuff but I know not what and care less. I boof in. The “biscuits” on the side taste somewhere between interesting and great, and the wine I can only describe as a sort of an Auslese at about 15% alc with a touch of oxidation and mostly interesting but you couldn't drink two. Then the dessert. It’s so rich it’s listed on the Dow Jones Index, and hits new records for cholesterol and I haven’t even started on my “Gaelic Coffee” yet. Which is – Uuurrrrrp! – bloody brill-yant. I don’t leave a crumb nor a drop. Nary a smear on the plate.
At about five o’clock the Haggis attacks. The little bastard rears up out of that sea of cream and whisky and ambushes my colon something chronic and by five thirty it’s like two Harley Davidsons are fighting to the death in my guts. It’s a pitiful thing to see. And no sympathy forthcoming from the spectators.
The moral of the story is – ah, bugger it, there isn’t one! You’re a long time dead. Go for the big bet every time.
Extracted from “Haggis And Silver Birch Wine”
© T. R. Edmonds 1994
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