Tags
We reluctantly take the ferry from the beautiful Isle of Arran late this morning back to Ardrossan on Scotland’s west coast, to make our way back to England and down to Windermere in the Lake District.
From our days in Scotland I will take many memories of amazing scenery, wildlife, history, uncharacteristic beautiful sunny days, staunchly proud people and Cullen Skink (this tasty fish and potato soup is from Cullen but I first tasted it at Arran).
A largely uneventful day getting from A to B, although it is interesting travelling through the poet Robbie Burns (aka The Bard) country in Ayrshire with the Burns House museum in Mauchline, former home at Ellisland Farm and his final home, Robert Burns Home in Dumfries.
I steered clear of black pudding and haggis (and its many variations on some menus, such as haggis lasagne and haggis hamburger) during our time in Scotland. It is appropriate though to pay homage to Burns by including his ode to the haggis:
Address to a Haggis Translation
Fair and full is your honest, jolly face,
Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Above them all you take your place,
Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm.
The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time of need,
While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm steaming, rich!
Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums;
Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
‘The grace!’ hums.
Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust,
Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On such a dinner?
Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feeble as a withered rush,
His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His fist a nut;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He’ll make it whistle;
And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like the heads of thistles.
You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!
Just before we leave Scotland we stop at Gretna Green and catch a wedding in train, complete with Scottish bagpipes.