Scotland the brave

Well, Scotland is where scotch comes from so it makes sense that there is quite a bit of it around. There are whisky bars everywhere all inviting you to differentiate between dozens of types. I have not particularly noticed drunk people or enormous amounts of drinking, but I am told that it is happening right under my nose all the time. Having just learnt the difference between a single malt and a blended whiskey, I am seriously out of my depth. Apparently though Scotland is one of the most alcoholic countries on the planet and all attempts to change this are simply laughed at.

There are tartan stores up and down the high street all the way from the base of Arthur's Seat to the Edinburgh Castle, but I have not seen many Scottish people decked out in it. In fact I have only seen one person actually weaaring a kilt and nobody wearing those really bad tam-o-shanter hats. Still William Wallace and Robert the Bruce loom large and the point of every story from Scottish history seems to be that the English are really nasty. The Scottish seem to enjoy telling stories of how badly treated they have been, and the whole thing reminds me of home.

When a bunch of Scotts stole the precious Scottish Stone of Destiny from Westminster in the 1950s, Scotland didn't quite know what to do with it so they gave it back and waited for Tony Blair to come along and officially give it to them. It is a bit like Australians who finally got the chance and then don't vote to become a republic.

More on the Franchesena

Here are two photographs of the earlier mentioned Portugese dish, the Franchesena, or "little French girl". Sandy sent me these with the update information that the Franchesena is all about the sauce.

Apparently the Scots will fry anything. They claim to have invented the deep fried Mars bar and the deep fried hamburger. I was told a story about someone who deep fried a lobster, just for fun. I might introduce the Franchesena to them and see if they would like to try deep frying it.

And yes, for those who read about al the things I did in Portugal, I did order one and I did eat more than half of it.

Bobby the most important creature in Edinburgh

You people out there who are reading my blog need to make a comment or two to let me know that I am loved.

A few hundred years ago a policeman was on graveyard shift which meant that he had to watch the graveyards at night to make sure that nobody stole the bodies, which at the time was a lucrative business. He got lonely and so got a little Scottish terrier and named him Bobby. (This seems a rather unimaginative name, given that the guy was a policeman.) The policeman dies, the dog sits by the grave for the rest of his life waiting for his master's return. It goes on for 14 years when Bobby himself dies but he cannot take up his rightful place buried next to his master. He has to be buried just outside the church yard because he might not have been a Christian.

There are pubs and cafes named after him, there is a statue of him and even though I have only been in Edinburgh for two days, there have been big articles in the daily paper about him both days: that makes a 100% hit rate. Yesterday's article was about a little Scotts terrier who has been trained to leave a wreath on Bobby's grave and today's article was about the gall of the Walt Disney company who are going to cast another type of terrier in the role of Bobby in their upcoming film. I don't know that I want to go and see a film about a dog that sits still for 14 years, then dies, but you never know.

I told two very sweet teenage boys about my theory that Bobby was really just a bit stupid and they said I was breaking their Scottish hearts. I told them about the equally moronic dog on the tucker box and then they they appointed themselves my guides for the day. This meant a huge walk up Arthur's Seat where King Arthur is buried if you believe that. The stopped and put their arms around me and took photographs, they laughed easily and seemed to enjoy the irreverence of not honouring little Bobby.

Wierdly enough, the Melbourne string orchestra was in town giving a recital at the University of Edinburgh. It was just fantastic. The crowd were all music students or lecturers, or supporters. I think I was the only man on the street type to go. I later met one of the orchestra members on my hike up to Arthur's Seat with my two young pals and she told me all about how wonderful the trip through Europe has been except for the permanent hat hair she has developed. I too have been suffering from bad hat hair, but since all of northern Europe has the same condition no one really notices.

Edinburgh: The First City of Literature

Haggis

I love haggis. I don't love it because it is gross, or different, or Scottish, I love it because it is delicious. (Delicious when fried as it turns out.)

"Haggis is typically served on Burns Night, January 25, when Scotland celebrates the birth of its greatest poet, Robert Burns, who was born in Ayrshire on that date in 1759. During the celebration, Burns poems are read, and the haggis is addressed by a member of the party, ceremonially, in the form of verses from Burns' poem, 'Address to a Haggis.' A typical meal for Burns Night would include Cock-a-Leekie, Haggis with Tatties-an'-Neeps, Roastit Beef, Tipsy Laird, and Dunlop Cheese."

http://www.smart.net/~tak/haggis.html

Robert Burns

And here is a little bit of what Robert Burns wrote in honour of the hagggis. This is only the first on nine stanzas:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

There are whole programs available for how one should run a Robbie Burns night, and I am sure that someone in Melbourne sells haggis. Part of me is a little bit tempted to try to make it. This year is a very special 250th anniversary of his birth so someone might want to start planning. Every man, woman and child in Edinburgh is ready for it.

City of Literature

When you stack up the writers of Edinburgh as the first City of Literature against the famous writers of Melbourne as the second City of Literature, we look a bit thin on the ground. I will have to offer my services as liaison for the two cities and fly back of forth exchanging ideas. Edinburgh is all Burns, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Scott, great names huge and lyrical, then there is Ian Rankin who apparently can be spotted in the bars and cafes around. And of course there is the whole Harry Potter Industry, a wired blend of modern merchandising and the magic of the olde world which seems somehow to still exist when you look at Edinburgh Castle.

Is Scotland a country? It depends who you ask.

The only reason I did not get hit when I asked this question in Edinburgh is because I was excused on the basis of my idiot status, otherwise known as 'tourist'. Benny says no, Sandy says they don't have an army, I say they don't compete in the Olympic games in their own name; but just hold on a minute. They do have a parliament sort of, and the got back the 'stone of destiny' which apparently to the Scots means they are a country.

Darwin's birthday

The last museum in London for me was the Museum of Natural History where they have a special exhibition for Darwin's birthday. Of course, every natural history museum in the world is really his, but this exhibition was particularly well put together. The stories were lovely. He was only 22 when he set out on The Beagle and lots of the notes captured Darwin as a bit of a lad rather than the sage, bearded image that we tend to be presented with. He rode on the backs of the Galapagos tortoises but had trouble keeping his balance, pulled the tails of lots of animals and repeatedly threw iguanas back into the sea to try to work out why they kept returning to him so he could do it again.

They had lots of contemporary stuff, sadly enough still defending common sense against 'intelligent' design, a nice film of the path he walked for years while he was thinking it all through, and the two finches (hummingbirds as it turns out) that started him thinking. They were tagged and presented on a velvet cushion in pride of place. One highlight was the little scrap of paper where Darwin sketched out a tree and comes up with the model of branches for evolutionary science. This is the first codification of the idea of the tree of life.

Christine and I then went to Lynne's house and I made the shredded kale and potato soup that I had eaten in Portugal. It worked just fine. Finally I trudged off in the night to my train to Edinburgh where I found two empty seats. This mean a lay down on the train and a patchy but passable night's sleep. I finally looked out the window in Carlisle but could not workout why the train was going that way. The announcement was the we were diverted in the middle of the night because of flooding. I contented myself with staring at the white sheep with black faces (just like in the cartoons) and the wonderful green of everything until the train pulled in at the station in Scotland.

War Museum

The drive back from Birmingham to Oxford was late, the roads were slippery and the temperature was minus 4. I was okay because I was not behind the wheel. The motorways behaved themselves and I got home to Oxford with Superbock (Portugese beer) and octopus behind me.

So back to London to finish the museums. Today was the Imperial War Museum. A pretty impressive place but no mention of the current war, of course. There were many effective maps, photos interactive displays and quite shocking stuff. The weaponry was huge, but I don't know enough about it to really understand what I was looking at.

Dinner was a pizza place called la Porcheta. For minute I feared that it might be the Melbourne chain spreading out, but thankfully not. The food was just lovely and after dinner Christine and I sat up talking over old times. Tomorrow night I am off to Edinburgh. I will revert to my maiden name (Mckay) while there and see if it does me any good.

Port, Porto, Portugal

Porto is the second biggest city in Portugal and I went there. It is built on a very steep hill like the towns along the Amalfi coast or Taxco in Mexico (but now you will just think I am showing off.) It is a major port with a beautiful river running out to beaches and beyond, and it is where port comes from. The apartment provided a wonderful view across the river and the Gaia Bridge (for those who want to look it up). Occasionally a team of 8s would row past or a military band would drum up a procession for no reason that we could understand. These events puncutated the mournfully relaxing sight of a summertime holiday town in sleep mode for winter. Here are some highlights.

The city

Tall thin houses, with tiles on the outside, most often blue and white floral inspired patterns, but sometimes yellows, greens and reds stand on streets/laneways that are far too narrow for cars, but then you would occasionally and impossibly see a car winding along. Sandy kept pointing out the art deco features, I was stumped by the hieght/width ratio and the question of where the staircase might be.

The market
All was good, even if we got there when it was half closed. Butchers, line up to sell more meat than you can imagine a town needs. Lunch was crunchy fish from a cafe in the middle of the market. When we ordered the fish, a woman went out, bought it from a fish shop and cooked it for us. Life can be so simple.
Here I was stumped by another curiousity. They were selling a meat product that I could not identify. I had ticked off evey organ of every animal that I know, but still a dark red sticky mass (not liver) was before us. At one point we saw it in a bucket and it was steaming. Finally, Sandy pointed to the stuff for sale then her innards then gesticulated a question by raising her shoulders. The woman answered by miming the cutting of her wrists and we knew what we were looking at. Blood sausages don't come from nowhere.

Custard tarts
It is said that in London you are never more that five metres from a rat. I posited the idea that in Porto you are never more than five metres from a custard tart. Benny is not sure if that is true, but I am going to stand by this until someone proves me wrong. A pastisse de nata (that's Portugese for custard tart), with a little shaker of cinnamon and a coffee makes a treat that can be eaten at any time of the day or night.

Franchesena
The Franchesena is Portugal's answer to the French croque monsiuer. It literally means "The litttle French girl" and as you can see, the word "little" is sarcastic. It is a sandwich of bread, peppered ham, veal cutlet, sausage, ham, bread again, smothered in gooey cheese, all grilled in a creamy tomato and wine sauce.

The sculptures
Our focus on food was occasionally interupted by some cultural events. We saw a gallery of good stuff, but best of all were the sculptures and the busts. We tried and failed to hear some music, and we sat and sunned ourselves on various public seats, bars and cafes. We noticed that few people wear crusifixes, no one crosses themselves when they pass a church, the city is very slow, possibly even hibernating, the waiters are so bored that when you ask them where a bar might be, they take off their aprons and want to come with you. (Those of you who doubt me need to check the validity of this story with Sandy and Benny.)

The transport
Apart from the attempt to march to the beach past the fishermen cooking their sardines on a dockside grill, and the many calf building stair climbs, we road trains that become trams, buses, and best of all a finicular. Guess which part I liked best. The public transport was remarkably clean and available.