Flower of Scotland

Twice a year I spend a few days in Scotland visiting relatives.  Despite having never lived north of the border, there is an atmosphere reminiscent of a homecoming about the trip.  Maybe it’s because everyone sounds like my parents, or maybe it’s something altogether more spiritual; a feeling that here, in the land of my forefathers, I belong.  There is a particular routine that I adhere to which adds to the sense that I’m a local.  First it’s to Miss Cranston’s Tea Room; the upstairs café’s warm yellow walls brighten even the grimmest Glasgow afternoon and the tinkle of cutlery and friendly chatter lulls you into a cosy and familiar tranquillity.  Everything on the menu has a maternal homeliness; from the miniature scotch pies to the light and airy fruit scones.  I always have the same thing: haggis and clapshot (aka neeps’n’tatties) bathed in rich, silky gravy.  Haggis gets such a bad rap, it has as much to do with sheep’s stomachs these days, as sausages have with pigs intestines.  I am on a mission to educate people of this scotch classic of spicy mince and barely, not dissimilar to shepherd’s pie (only a thousand times tastier).  Saying that there is nothing wrong with spinning the tale that the haggis is a small, squirrel like creature, with two legs longer than the others to make running round the hills of the highlands that much easier.  Unsuspecting American tourists beware. 

After lunch my day of gastronomy has only just begun, but I have to earn the fish supper with potato fritters that’s coming my way later.  I take the clockwork orange (the metro system’s affectionate, if not somewhat disconcerting nickname) to Byers Road, the district encircling the university.  The streets here are lined with boutiquey vintage shops and tea rooms.  I love to rummage through piles of bric-a-brac and clothing, in drafty warehouses, hidden down side streets to find that buried gem; an antique silver ring, or a vintage evening dress.  Today it is raining.  Rains that, I will find out tomorrow, have caused the Clyde to burst its banks and caused general travel chaos.  The smooth, flat paving stones that are typical of Glasgow city are swimming with torrents of cascading water. 

So onto Motherwell which, according the recommendations of no less than Rick Stein, has one of the finest fish restaurants in Scotland.  I, however, never frequent this particular establishment and instead opt for the Chinese-fish shop-take away located at the entrance to my Grandma’s  tower bloc.  If I’m feeling gluttonously indulgent I may even chose a deep fried mars bar (yes they do exist) accompanied by vanilla ice cream. 

Last stop, Edinburgh.  Always a fleeting stopover before I catch my flight.  Another excuse to sit down with tea and cake.  Then a mad dash to find boxes of Edinburgh rock, filled with sugary, pastel coloured morsels that melt on the tongue.