Subject: Scotland part 7 of 10 Date: Mon, 17 Jul 95 10:40:00 PDT "You have to try the black pudding." is what the hostess said the next morning at breakfast. "You don't have to like it, but while you're in Scotland, you must try the black pudding." It was kinda the continuation of our pudding adventures, and it was actually quite good. Black, it was and savory with hits of meat, heavy spices, and just the texture of bread or British style pudding. The concept of Black pudding, with an American style pudding, would be just impossible. A U.S. style pudding with dried blood as its main ingredient would just be completely unpalatable. British puddings are completely different, though, and actually particularly nice. With the boiling, the black pudding turned out to be a lot more like a British sausage, which is another interesting difference, because British sausages have a whole lot more cereal products in them than the U.S. ones do, and that lends the sausages a particularly different texture and flavor. I have to admit that I actually like the British sausages that can be commonly gotten rather better than U.S. sausages. Breakfast was excellent, and we packed pretty quickly to leave. Our ferry was at 11am, and we had to be there an hour early and it was about an hour's drive there. When we went to pay, the hostess beckoned us over to a table which held a world map, an European map and a map of the U.K.. She'd been given the world map by her children, originally, to figure out where her guests were from. The U.K. and European maps were given to her by guests that wanted to better pinpoint where they were from. Turned out that there probably had been someone from Tacoma, or the south tip of the Sound, but there wasn't a pin in Seattle itself. So we put ours just a little east of the city. The drive, after the push of the previous day, was easy and leisurely and in the sunshine. It was gorgeous out, and the landscape by the sea was green and lush and beautiful. We headed inland and suddenly the land turned brown with heather and, just as suddenly, it turned *black*. A farm area had peeled back the top layer of heather from hundreds of acres of land, and the earth was as black as black could be. It was startling just how dark the earth was in that area. A sign flashed to our left, and it was a caution, sheep the next ten miles sign. John noted that if we ran into a sheep, there would be far more damage to this little, tiny, toy of a car than there would be to the sheep. Two minutes later, a sheep and her lamb made a mad dash for the other side of the road, right in front of our car. John managed to slow enough not to hit the sheep, and both of us were laughing pretty shakily at the near prediction. The town of Thurso existed mostly because of the protected bay that we'd be sailing from and because the stone in the area was perfect for cutting flagstones. This also explained the difference in stone walls that were around there, which were mostly great big slabs of stone set on end instead of the neatly stacked small stones we'd seen over most of the rest of Scotland. It was sunny, quiet and a kind of lazy day. We parked the car in the line for the ferry and went into the terminal to get our tickets and the air was filled with heat and sun and the lazy hum of a few fans in the office. The sunshine streamed in and filled the area with warmth, quiet and that specific kind of lazy hazy feeling of summer in official buildings with linoleum on the floors... perhaps a feeling I first got from when I used to do summer school in Indiana, and there were so few people enrolled that the school felt empty and lazy... John took care of the official stuff. I wandered and found a tiny gift shop by the parked cars, which had the Orkney Island guide right at the counter. I bought it and the little old lady behind the counter and commented that it was a beautiful day for traveling and I agreed that it was a beautiful day and left with a smile and the book and John saying that the cars were loading. Our line was, indeed, moving, so we sprinted for the car and got on. The ferry was set up a lot like the bigger, car carrying Washington state ferries, the car decks below, and several layers of passenger decks, with a deck at the top that was nearly completely open. There were open areas on all the levels, but the top deck was almost entirely so, except for a control cabin that makes for a good wind break for the sunny side of the top deck. We went directly to the top, as it was sunny and bright and warm and lovely to look out over the completely flat North Sea. It was so flat it was nearly like looking at a lake. It was rather astonishing, especially after Malcolm and Carole's stories of their initial visit. The sunshine was lovely, too, and steadily grew warmer, but then the ship pulled out from the port and a perfect, small breeze sprang up. I pulled out this laptop and started banging away at the previous two days. A business man in a suit walked up to me and said, "You don't look like a business man." I smiled up at him and he looked a little taken aback when I said, "I'm not." He hesitated and then said, "Then why do you have that?" He indicated the machine in my lap. "It's for my diary. I like writing it while I'm traveling." I said. "In English??" he asked, surprised. I blinked, completely confused by the question. "Uhm... yeah." was all I managed. He sat down to look, and he blinked in surprise as well. I can only now surmise that he was surprised that I knew English that well. John said, later, that I should have said, "Of course, it's my native language." but I don't think as fast as he does. A small inconsequential conversation later, he left me, with some obvious relief, to talk with John for a while, who was all smiles and very, very good at leading the guy away from me. The two of them stood and talked along the sides of the ship, where the wind was just whipping along. The sun deck we were on was on the leeward side of the control cabin on the top deck. I just curled up and wrote while enjoying the movement of the ship on the waves and was happy as a clam for the two hours of the ride. Once off in Sternwall, we pretty much took a left off the ferry dock, found a parking spot and parked the car. John called a B&B from behind the 'i' and then haunted the information shop for various kinds of information. John got stuff on the local whiskey distilleries and historic sites while I collected stuff on local fiber arts. There were a few things on a map of Sternwall, so we wandered through the stone streets of the tiny town. Most of the shops were tourist oriented, some really fine handmade items that were just as expensive as handmade items ought to be and are in the U.S.. Nothing that wasn't possible anywhere else, until we came to the third shop, and there, behind the proprietress, was a shawl... ... a hauntingly familiar shawl, as I've been studying Shetland shawl construction for the last seven years. And, until that shop, I hadn't *seen* a shawl of that particular kind of construction made by anyone else's hands. I'd only ever seen pictures in books, or from the copies that Jennifer has made me from the pictures she's seen. I'd known that the islands were closer to Shetland than any other part of the U.K. and had kinda been hoping to see that kind of work, but... it was interesting. Both neat in knowing that people still made the things, but also kinda sad in knowing that other people were making them as well, and it wasn't something that was simply unique to me. Jenny Glover had mentioned that she'd made a couple of the lace shawls as gifts for other people. It was an interesting contrast to here in the U.S. where people that had ever even heard of the shawls were pretty rare. I didn't buy the shawl. It was way too expensive for me to buy and far too cheap for the amount of work that had probably gone into it. Kinda an interesting duality. We did visit a bakery just around the corner, 'cause we were kinda hungry having missed lunch and it was nearly 4pm. We bought just a sausage roll to share between the two of us. It was cool to see an Eve's Pudding in the bakery display and know what it was for. I also got a cream cake with a bit of jam. John bought some sweet for himself, and at the last minute I threw in a packet of shortbread that looked a little paler than the normal Scottish butter shortbread, but still looked really good. When I got out into the street, I was reading the package and found that it was made with 'vegetable fat' instead of butter, which explained the paleness. Interesting, Scottish shortbread without the butter?? We tried a wedge as we drove away from Strewn towards Kirkwall and it was delicious, crisp and rich. Yum. The drive to Kirkwall, which is half way across the Mainland island, was about half an hour long, and the last tour of the Highland Park Distillery was at 4:30, so we just made a beeline for the distillery. As we pulled up the hill towards the distillery, we saw two four sided pagoda roofs in the midst of the distillery, and they looked kinda odd amid the traditional stonework of the rest of the buildings. We caught the tour just as it was about to leave. The tour guide said we could pay when the tour was over, so we just fell in with the small group of eight. Malcolm told us that Highland Park was one of two distilleries in Scotland that still did the whole process, from barley all the way to the single malt whiskey. He also said that they made terrible whiskey and Carole disagreed. The process, though, was fascinating to see. They start with the barley, which they actually ship to the Orkneys from Scotland. The grain is put into two big bowls, that each hold two tons of grain and a warm water is put in to cover the grain. Oxygen is bubbled through the mixture both to keep it from packing at the bottom of the containers and to help keep the mixture from rotting. They leave it in there for a couple of days, sprouting the barley, and, unlike with most bean sprouts and such, it's just root sprouts, not leaves. The tiny sprouts are then dumped out the bottom of the container into giant wheel barrows, which are then used to spread the sprouts on a concrete floor, underneath the containers. It's all put underground to keep the ambient temperature about the same, cold enough to keep it from growing too fast, but warm enough not to kill the tiny plants. They grow it for about a week, long enough to use most of the starch in the seeds for root growth, but not long enough for leaves to start, so the sugars don't get built into plant structure. The sprouts are the taken to those strange pagodas... It turns out that they're drying kilns. A fire is built in the middle of the kiln and the heat is directed out to all four sides by the metal roof that's shaped like a pagoda. The grain is put on shelves above the kiln and the roof and it is killed and dried by the heat. The fire, at first, is built with peat, especially hairy and, therefore, smoky peat is used to smoke the grain and give it the distinctively peaty flavor of the local peat. Then they built a giant coke fire that is simply used to finish the drying process. We got to see the coke fire. Imagine a six foot wide, nearly three feet tall pile of red hot coals and a flame halo through and all around the whole thing that extended a good twelve feet in the air. Pyromaniac vision of heaven, or anyone else's vision of hell. It was astonishingly hot from fairly far away and the air rippled with the heat. Wow. The dried grain is ground up and lots of hot water is poured on it. The husks and all that are left in the mass, and are good for filtering out all the grain bits as the water and dissolved sugars are drained off. The malt water is then used in fermentation tanks. The fermented stuff is then piped over to the distillery. It turns out that there's a three stage cycle to the distilling process. The first third has too high and alcohol content, the second stage is just right, and the third is too low. So the first and third stage output is collected and run through again and again, until it's all the right consistency. The distilled spirit, which, at this point is clear and nearly tasteless but for the smoky peat taste, and is harsh beyond believe, is then put into oak casks for aging. The casks have already been used to store port and chardonney wine, so what was once stored in the casks actually flavors and colors the whiskey. Highland Park is a twelve year whiskey, so it has to be aged a minimum of twelve years. Then the whiskey from the two different kinds of casks are blended to make the commercial product, for both the proper color and the blended taste. We each got a shot of whiskey at the end of the tour. I saw a man take his and add water to it and I asked John if that was kosher, he said that it was a fairly standard drink, along with whiskey on the rocks. The water didn't detract from the taste and would make it a drink that could be drunk over a while instead of the straight stuff we had. I really liked how it tasted straight but slowly sipped. We sat in am amphitheater while drinking the samples and got to watch a film on the history of the Orkney islands and got a better sense of the scale of the history there. Civilizations that were so old that the tombs were robbed and graffiti'ed by the upstart Vikings. Also an island culture that was always innovative, making the best of whatever befell them, and evidence of it was all over the island. After the tour we bought the obligatory bottle of whiskey and went to the B&B to check in and dump all our stuff. When they'd advertised it as a farm house, they weren't kidding, and in the summer heat, everything around and in the place smelled of cow dung. There were also stuffed dead animals everywhere including a magnificent, nearly four foot tall eagle mounted in a glass case on the top landing of the staircase. Kinda depressing to see. So we dumped our stuff and ran off to see what there was to see in the evening light. This far north, the evening would stretch for ever. We headed south, looking for some yarn places, fairly sure that they'd be closed, since it was after 6pm, but it wouldn't hurt to *look*. On the way south we crossed some of the Churchill causeways between islands. One of those features of innovation. There were Italian prisoners of war that were brought to the islands to help secure Scapa Flow after a submarine had coasted into the harbor and sunk several warships in the harbor. They were used to fill in the gaps between the mainland, two tiny islands, Burray and South Ronaldsay. Originally, they were called the Churchhill Barriers, but the Italian POWs objected to working on a structure of strategic importance, so they called 'em Civilian Causeways to improve the living conditions of the islanders. The Italian Chapel was on the south side of the second barrier. Called 'The Miracle of Camp 60', it was built from two Nissen huts put end to end and then 'decorated' by the Italian POWs. The word 'decorate' is nowhere close to the truth. The entire interior is painted, frescoed and ornate, intricate ironwork for the rood screen and gates. From the outside looking in, it looked as if the entire interior was tiled, the floor made of marble, and the windows were stained glass. On a closer look the windows were colored with bits of plastic, and the interior and floors were all actually painted to look as if they were made of precious things. The exterior entrance to the chapel is nearly incredible, with a steeple, archway, with a carved bust of Jesus and all kinds of things that make the front look white and perfect and like any other chapel until you go around to the side and see the curved walls of the Nissens covered in concrete to insulate it. The beauty of the tiny chapel is actually heart deep, given what it was built from, and the surrounding landscape, especially in the glowing light of evening, was breathtaking. What I loved most, though, was a statue of St. George and the dragon made from barbed wire and concrete right by the parking lot for the chapel. It was a rough, ugly brute thing that still managed to illicit the motion of the battle being fought. The materials were perfect for the work, and it was done by the same man that had done all the exquisite renderings within the chapel. THAT was somewhat surprising to discover. Along the Barriers were great big, nastily rusty ship carcasses. Some of them had been put there, originally, to close off the channels to other ships. Others were wrecks and ship carcasses from then the German fleet had been put in Scapa Flow during the surrender negotiations. The German skippers were given secret orders to scuttle their ships in Scapa Flow if there was a surrender, and 100+ ships were sunk in the harbor that day. After the war, during the depression, the Orcadians took advantage of the opportunity and started huge salvation operations that kept the Islands prosperous even in hard times. During the wars, the island farmers had made excellent livings by feeding all the troops that were kept in the area to guard the harbor. We made for St. Margaret's Hope to look for a yarn shop and drove by it three times before we finally got out of the car to look for it on foot and find it. It was well tucked away and a beautiful yarn shop, but not exactly what I was looking for because there were no shawls nor any indication of lace weight yarns. It was fun standing outside looking in and deciding that way. We both started feeling hungry again. In the book was the mention of a five star restaurant at St. Margaret's Hope. It took us a good fifteen minutes to find out where that was, even though it was barely three blocks away. The main problem we were having was that the streets in the towns were built a *very* long time ago, where having a street a car width wide was a big thing, and so Front street was just wide enough for our car and right on the waterfront pier, instead of being the street that wasn't quite so exposed to the elements. We found The Creel nearly in the Bay what with high tide; but we also found that they weren't going to be open until 7pm. So we piled back into the car, ate the last of the shortbread to stop our stomachs from grumbling so much and headed further south towards the south end of the island. It didn't take very long to get to the south tip of the island and find a place called the Tomb of the Eagles because there were tombs there that had hundreds of mummified eagles' claws in them. It took quite a bit of navigating by sign to get out there, and we'd ended up on dirt roads with John joking about us taking our '11' off road. Land Rovers models are mostly identified by their wheel base length, we have a '90' and a '109' and there are also '101's '110's, and the like, and since the Cinquecento was so darned tiny, he started calling it an '11'. We decided I should drive a little, and so I took the wheel and had fun scaring John by going really, really close to the left side of the road, and then kinda got the hang of it. My main problem was shifting gears with my left hand, but in the same shifting pattern as on a right handed stick shift. That was interesting... and the roads at that hour of the evening were completely clear, so I bombed us back to the Creel and parked it neatly on the edge of the dock there. Then, in our shorts and t-shirts, we entered The Creel. Five star restaurants are made to be an experience. Part of the experience was the setting, out, nearly on the water, watching the sun set and the tide slowly move out as we took the time to enjoy every nuance and accent of the service and the food. A lady showed us a window table, handed us both the wine list and the one page menu with just four appetizers, four main course selections and four desserts to choose from. What was fresh, available, and what the chef was in a mood to create. I ordered the crab bisque for a starter, a lemonade for drink, and then a lamb tenderloin crusted with oatmeal, nuts, and herbs with a baby haggis, vegetables and potato. John ordered fish cakes as a starter and scallops served in a filo shell with a pilaf for his dinner. Simple enough to list, but what came is nearly indescribable. Nearly. You knew I had to try. The crab bisque was thick, pale orange red from the cooked crab in it, and the perfect balance of richness and savoryness with the distinctive salty accent of crab. The soup plate had exactly the right amount in it, not so much that I felt like I was full after just the soup and bread, but not so little that I didn't get to enjoy all the drops there were. John's fish cakes were served in a rich white sauce with a tanginess that complimented the fish cakes really, really well. We traded taste, as usual. He loved the sauce on that so much that he sopped up every last drop with his bread. Dinner arrived perfectly arraigned. Along one side were the slices of lamb, beautifully red in the center, pinkly cooked to an encrusted edge. The haggis sat in the center on top of a pilaf. A potato, encrusted in the same mixture as the lamb sat on the other side. A perfect pool of rich, deep, dark brown gravy was a moat around the haggis and along the far side. The vegetables came in their own dish, to be served and eaten as desired, and they were a crisply stir fried medley of greens and carrots and sprouts. The gravy was... astonishing. Rich with wine and lamb juices and other things there is no way I can distinguish, it lent its rich, distinctive flavor to everything. The potato turned out to have actually been skinned, and mashed with sour cream, chives, cheddar and a few other spices. The coating on the potato and lamb gave the whole dinner a nutty, chewy texture that complimented the softness of the potato and the exquisite tenderness of the lamb. Yeesh, truly *rare* lamb in the U.K. is nearly unheard of, but it was done to a perfect medium rare and tender to the fork. Haggis has an unfair reputation. Though it is made from sheep's offal, that's only part of the recipe. This baby haggis was cooked in a small sausage skin instead of a sheep stomach, too, but properly boiled in the jacket. Haggis actually got a lot of oatmeal in it, as well, and is actually quite like the black pudding in texture, it's more like a small sausage than anything. And this one was really well seasoned, and the texture of the meat with the oatmeal was very nice in the mouth especially with the savory's of the seasoning to it. I really, really liked it, especially with that gravy. It took a while to finish, and I ate every bite. I still salivate whenever I remember that meal. We looked at the menu after that, and even with an ice cream swan swimming on a lake of Dranbuie, we decided not to explode ourselves and also have dessert. In the sunset and the onshore wind, we drove back towards the B&B, stopping at each of the Barriers to read about their history and watch the sun set on a very full day. ----- end of 7 of 10 ----- Copyright 1995 by Phyllis L. Rostykus. All rights reserved.