Back in the Sixties, there was a more than usually sanguinary murder in Glasgow. While the killer was awaiting trial, the Scottish Daily Express decided to buy up his family. This must have been after the days when such a case would end with a good hanging; Alan Cochrane insists that he is not that old. But the newspaper thought that the low-lifers’ tales of the dark and bloody alleyways of the Gorbals would titillate its readers. Alan, then a young reporter, was told to hide the family from rival bidders until judgment day, in some discreet hotel up on Lomond-side. That did not sound a hard posting, until he met the MacTumshies.
At the first meal, they sat awkwardly on their chairs and gazed suspiciously at the menus — even the ones who were holding them the right way up. Alan tried to accelerate proceedings. ‘What about starting with smoked salmon?’ ‘Ah’ve no had that,’ said Dad: ‘Ah’ll gie it a go.’ It arrived, and the suspicions returned: ‘Whaur’s the chips?’ Then the lawyers panicked. The Express was in danger of committing contempt of court. Alan was told to drive the MacTumshies back to the Gorbals, give them 50 quid, and lose them. If they were questioned, there would be little danger of their remembering the name of the paper that had tried to suborn them. Alan insists to this day that he could not have borne another 12 hours in their company.
Those are tales of yesteryear. In this century, even if the Union is under threat, ‘Scottish cuisine’ is no longer an oxymoron. Gone are the days when ‘green vegetable’ was only used as an insult to the Catholic Irish: when a Glasgow salad meant a plate of chips. But there is still a deplorable reluctance to exploit Scottish produce. Every week, refrigerated lorries leave the Highlands, bound for Spain. Their cargo: lobsters, crabs, langoustines, scallops, going to those who appreciate them. Shame on the Scots who fail to.
Even when the best ingredients are available, there are frustrations. I once spent a night in an old-fashioned hotel on Islay. Dinner: first course, soup; disgusting. It tasted as if it had come out of a packet, probably of wartime vintage. It may have been made from left-over Woolton pie. Main course: 12 langoustines. They tasted as if they had been alive half an hour earlier. Cooked lightly and succulently, dressed with garlic butter, they would have graced any restaurant in the world. So: what’s for pudding? Answer, mousetrap cheese and/or ice cream. Provenance of the ice-cream? Wall’s.
Throughout the Highlands, there are hairy English dropouts who vote SNP. They supplement the dole by weaving plaids from their beard clippings and often keep a goat or two. Persuade one of them to turn his hand to Islay chèvre. Induce a neighbouring housewife to make some soup: a cullen skink or a Scotch broth. Find a girl who could run up a decent crumble. Let ambition vault; fish does not really do as a main course, so what about some venison, or a grouse? Grouse freezes well, as I was pleasantly reminded over dinner on Easter Sunday. When all the game has been scoffed until the new season, there would be local beef: grass-fed, well-hung. Gourmets would cross oceans for such a repast.
But even before our culinary revolution, Islay is vaut le voyage. There is plenty to kill; there is also the whisky coast. Seven miles from the principal town, Port Ellen, is Kildalton Church. Humble, beautiful, solemn and numinous, Kildalton has known prayer for at least 1,200 years. A place for contemplation as twilight falls, it evokes the perilous guard-duty of the Celtic Church, protecting the flickering Christian flame out on the far edge of the known world, menaced by Norse raiders from the sea.
The approach march is more secular, taking you past three distilleries: Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg. Even after a long evening comparing and contrasting great whisky, one has to agree that the Scottish Enlightenment is North Britain’s greatest contribution to world history. But the Scottish endram-ment is not far behind. I shall return to that theme, when less distracted by sociology, religion or food.
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