I begin my 87-day reading tour of the US, UK and Canada on a BA flight that will take me to Edinburgh for the book festival. I catch up on my Ab Fab and Peppa Pig and eat some back bacon. I land around 10 p.m. and take a walk through the city. I love Scotland! The young people seem so ebullient: ‘Feck this. Feck that. Feck you.’ I stumble around the old town and new town taking in the endless adverts for all the plays. Should this much art exist in any one city? I guess so. I mean, why not? Probably it’s OK.
I wake up with a twofold mission in mind. Haggis and whisky. Look, I love haggis. It’s Scottish, but there’s something desperately Eastern European about it, something sultry, sickly and taboo. All I want to do is have a delicious haggis and follow it up with coffee and whisky for breakfast. Is that so wrong? Apparently. The server at the Arcade Haggis and Whisky House in the old town tells me she can’t serve me alcohol before 12.30 p.m. I look at her with shock. What part of ‘Scotland’ does she not understand? I’m about to bring up Irvine Welsh’s Wiki page to show her what I mean, when she returns: ‘I’m sorry. Whisky for breakfast is a lovely idea, I just can’t serve it to you.’ We look into each other’s eyes, centuries of Russo-Scottish understanding between us. The haggis, blood pudding and beans are terrific, even without alcohol. I should have brought my own flask.
Later, I meet up with some writers, editors and agents at Fishers in the City, where I eat some spectacular Orkney scallops and drink the better part of a bottle of Sancerre.
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