A Postcard from Scotland
2nd February, 2003
Several times a year, the good people of Scotland hold great celebrations. In the summer they hold The Highland Games, big gatherings that feature manly physical competitions such as tossing the caber; there is the Great Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle, a stirring event where the dancing and drill bands march and parade, accompanied by the haunting sound that an army of bagpipes makes and the rows upon rows of lassies dancing the country dances for which Scotland is so famous. And at Hogmanay (New Years Eve) no matter how cold it is, all of Scotland is out in the streets, whiskey bottle in hand, ready to "first foot" and welcome in the New Year.
But come January 25th, it's all about Robert Burns, with a holiday to mark the birth of Scotland's national poet.
Throughout the calendar year, as each holiday approaches, my British husband starts to feel his Scottish roots keenly. "Och" he might say in a reversion to the Scottish accent he had as a bairn (Gaelic for child — he spoke with a Scottish accent until the headmaster at Oxford sent him to elocution lessons, as they did all the foreign speakers) "it's lovely in Scotland now." In the summer he continues, "It's light almost all night long". Come New Years he'll say: "Everyone is out on the town, it reminds me of my childhood." And, as for Burns Night, he doesn't need to say anything at all; he just starts bringing home haggis from the shops. Finally, if I haven't taken the hints, he just ends up saying: "Och, lets go to Scotland!"
And so, recently I found myself on the overnight bus up to the town of Stirling, where Auntie Rose lives. Auntie Rose is everyone's Scottish Auntie, able and willing to brew up cup after cup of tea, simmer a big pot of Scotch Broth, all the while catching you up on the gossip: who is where and doing what and when they were last up in Scotland. When Auntie Rose came to visit us in California, one morning she came running in out of breath. "I was watering the garden... and I saw a wee beastie! Oh, aiy, and it didn't smell very nice." Auntie Rose's first skunk.
When we reached the Scottish border everything changed, including the accents, and I guess that's why I started thinking about Auntie Rose, and how I looked forward to seeing her, and, generally speaking, how very pleasant the Scots are to be around.
We were on our way to celebrate a Burns Night Ceidlyh in Bridge of Allan, a little community on the edge of Stirling, built on "the Water": a river whose water is rich in copper and thus reputed to be very healthy and curative. We had been to Bridge of Allan for Burns Night two years prior and it was memorable; this was a cozy return.
It's sad that you can't find more ceidlyhs in Scotland for Burns Night. We had trouble finding this one, but I do feel encouraged that this might change, people seem more interested in their own culture than in the past, and often I saw Gaelic along with English on signs. It was only a generation ago that Gaelic was the mother tongue to this area — British husband's mother was a Gaelic speaker who often won prizes for her recitation of poetry, her traditional Highland dance and song renditions. I'd like to think that Gaelic is making somewhat of a return — it's sad when we lose such an important aspect of our heritage and traditions as our language.
Anyhow, come late January the windows of Bridge of Allan shops are full of references to "Rabbie" Burns: The Village Glass windows are always nice this time of year, with the poem To a Mouse presented, along with a haggis, some oatcakes, and a chunk of cheese. There is a bottle of whiskey, a thistle, a sporran and a dirk. The bakery along the way, Matthesons, boasts the second best Scotch Pie in the world" (where might the first be?) and just down the road, a wonderful delicatessen than manages to combine both international goodies with local Scots traditional dishes. You've got your oatcakes, shortbreadas, with your biscotti, your chorizo and your foie gras, manchego and mebrillo, your Zulu Relish from Africa alongside Skippy peanut butter from the USA, delicate Mylelina preserves from the island of Levos, as well as Black Bun (or Scottish Bun) — a dense square of black black dried fruit squished together, with a layer of pastry on top and bottom. Black bun might be the heaviest food known to humans. And lots of lovely vegetables and fruits, an amazing selection, right there in the middle of the Scottish winter. I don't know where they're being grown, but how wonderful that they sell it, people want to eat it, and well, just knowing that makes me feel a bit more optimistic about life.
But what really is a cheerful thought, and one that you should entertain any time you find yourself near Stirling, is this: Bridge of Allan has a wonderful fish and chip shop, the Allanwater Cafe. I mean really wonderful, worth a detour as the Michelin folks might say. Order a medium portion of cod to share; I always must have a pickled onion as well. I mean, how can anyone eat fish and chips without a pickled onion? Of course, my husband feels the same way about a buttered roll: his DIY chip butty is an integral part of his experience. But here's the thing: it might look like an ordinary fish and chippie, purveying its assortment of fish and chips and various burger/pizza/pies/rolls/junk foods (and I might add, its haggis, black pudding, potato scones, Lorne sausage — which I personally despise — and white pudding — which I adore) but here is what you do: take it out, walk just to the corner next to the water, then turn right on Blairforkie Road. Right up a few stairs is a bench, and on this bench you can eat your fish and chips, fresh and hot, while you watch the river rushing by. Not only is it much cheaper than eating in the restaurant, you get to be outside. Fish and chips always taste better out-of-doors anyhow, as close to water as you can get.
The verdict on the fish and chips: the best fish (sweet and moist, steamy and dreamy almost, in its crispy (so crispy) and light (so utterly light) jacket of batter. I took one bite, and as my teeth broke through the crisp, greaseless batter and into the impossibly hot and juicy cod, wanted to scream: "Yippeeee!" In spite of having eaten many remarkable, delicious, memorable foods in my life (some might say far too many), few make me feel quite so exhilarated and, well, happy (though L'Arpege's combination of three year old Comte cheese paired with a chunk of black truffle did just that) as that fish, eaten out of a cardboard box on a park bench... it reminded me of Brillat-Savarin's famous quotation, "The discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star."
So there I was, eating that fish, listening to the sound of the rushing river, hoping it wouldn't rain and not really minding if it did. Husband and I were fighting over the chips, but more-good naturedly than usual. Voices were not yet raised and we were both very civil: Here, have a chip — oh, no, would you like some, and passing the box back and forth almost like a textbook demonstration on How Nice It Is To Share. The chips were okay, but, I mean, that fish. That fish. Just so good. And the onion: was this the finest pickled onion in the land? It had to have been.
Allanwater Cafe is known throughout the area for its ice cream, too. The very sweet and vivacious waitress across the street at Clive Ramsay's cafe made me promise to have one — but, alas, there is only so much a girl can eat, even this girl. Our waitress Nicky Reid, though, a student in media studies at the University, waxed lyrical. She had something cheerful and enthusiastic to say about everything on this planet, and kept up a lively commentary as she made our cappuccino — which was the best cappuccino: dark and aromatic and full of roasted coffee flavour, a little fluff of milk topping. When I am served a really good cup of cappuccino I usually ask myself what I've done to deserve this. In other words, I feel lucky, I feel moved to thank my higher power for this little pleasure in life.
For years and years and years I had been avoiding IRN BRU, Scotlands national soft drink.. I don't really like soda drinks, or rather, I don't like to support the big multinational brands. But IRN BRU is local boy made good — Scotland is the only country in the world that hasn't rolled over and played dead when faced with Coke and Pepsi. I mean, Coke and Pepsi are there in the supermarket, but they share a modest little shelf alongside IRN BRU (and, though less famous, the very good Burdock and Nettle soda).
If you haven't seen IRN BRU, you'll wonder what that weird dayglo orange drink is on the shelves. The only color I can think of to describe it is: Neon Rust. IRN BRU (pronounced something like "Iron Brew", but with much R rolling) has a motto: "Made from Girders." ("Girrrrrrdaghrrrrrs") I thought it was just a marketing ploy, but then looked at its ingredient label: sure enough, right there at the top of the list was ferrous something or another — in other words, iron.
It was at Allanwater Cafe that I glanced over to the drinks cabinet and pondered my selection, then opened the glass door, twisted free the plastic cap, and tasted my first IRN BRU. And it was in Allanwater Cafe that I drank glass after glass of this unnaturally colored concoction, very pleased with my new discovery and delighted in the fact that it tasted like bubbly bubble gum with a whiff of cream soda. What was I doing all of these years avoiding such a delicious beverage — what had I been thinking? Why had I delayed and wasted good IRN BRU drinking years — by god, it was tasty.
Since my epiphany I have had several observations about IRN BRU. The first is that diet IRN BRU is not nearly as good as the regular sugary stuff which really is everything a good, no, a perfect, soda pop should be: sweet, bubbly, fizzy, with flavor as well as sweetness, and just the right balance of acidic counterpoint. And, number two, Irn Bru tastes best from a bottle, not from a can (as all good soft drinks are better from a bottle). Plastic is okay and good for travel, but glass really is the best, hands down.
In my zeal to share my discovery with the world, or at least my own little world, I carried a plastic bottle full of my favourite orange coloured brew to NYC to share with my friends for brunch; Irn Bru was star of the show, of course; we sampled it in tiny glasses, laughed about the girrrrrdhrrrrrrrhs, and one brave soul even concocted an IRN BRU cocktail, the Cast IRN Screwdriver: orange juice, lemon vodka, and a little top-up of IRN BRU. Gives a nice pink bubbly glow and a deliciously artificial nuance to the classic orange and vodka.
Hmmmmm... I notice that I haven't yet said anything about the Burns Night Ceidlyh, which was ultimately our reason for heading north. As the ceidlyh itself was held at The Royal Bridge of Allan Hotel, we booked ourselves in for their special — and so reasonable! — Burns Night Package. The hotel is well-appointed in the traditional manner, with tartan carpets and upholstery, dark wood and a clubby feel downstairs, open airy rooms upstairs. It is both friendly and classy. As several plaques attest, a long line of famous people have stayed there: Charles Dickens in 1867, the same year as Robert Louis Stevenson; Chopin stayed there, as did the Beatles.
Burns Night was great: there were perhaps 100 of us, eating Scotch Broth Soup, haggis, neeps and tatties, and Cranachan, set out on formally laid tables with flower arrangements that included all of the wild delicacies of the Scottish fields: the thistle, the wild orchid, the herbs (such as sage), and the daisy that is considered such good luck. I admit that I stole (there must be a nicer word for it) the flower arrangement from our table and ferried it right up to our room. I simply wanted to prolong the festivities of having such special flowers near me — and I did wait until after the evening was over, so please don't think the worse of me.
Oh, it was all wonderful: the dinner, the dancing, the kilts, the flinging, the wee dram, and the accordion music: an evening to remember, and if the piper and haggis-addresser didn't show up (a problem that seems to plague people in this profession. I don't even want to speculate on reasons, and it seemed a sore subject with the hotel manager so we let it go) we still had our kilts and our tartans, our whiskey and music, and we were sweating and swirling, stepping on each other feet, going off in the wrong directions and then coming back again, in other words having a gay old time.
And staying at the hotel was great: last time we had had to take a middle of the night bus on a frigid night to where we were staying. This time, when the ceidlyh ended we just climbed the tartan carpets and hurled ourselves into the hug comfortable beds.
But we loved our room so much we didn't want to sleep. We watched cable television and made pots of tea, read the magazines and had baths using the toiletries that I love to find in hotels. Then we wrapped ourselves up in the big white hotel towel bathrobes; the only way we could convince ourselves to sleep was to think about breakfast.
I did want to know if all of the rooms were so nice, so roomy, so big. The next morning I learned, in pumping the receptionist for information, that there are three rooms which are reallly reallly nice. "Aiy," she replied, "We often use your room as the Bridal Suite." In addition to ours, I was told that Room #12 is also very nice, as well as Room #5 in the Royal Lodge just a few doors down. But I warn you, that if you try to book Room #6 for next years Burns Night, you'll have to share with myself and husband; we're coming back.
And by the way, if you're leaving via Edinburgh, pop in and visit The Scotsmans Lounge, across the way and up the hill from Waverly Station; it's an atmospheric pub with live traditional music: here is your best chance at any given time of hearing accordion, fiddle, even bagpipes. If you fancy a nice set of knees, give it a chance — you might even see a kilt.