Fisherman's Blues
I’m eating peanuts. They’re in a little bag marked Spar, which is the name of a grocery chain. Spar? Groceries? I guess Kroger isn’t any more evocative of food than Spar, but it still strikes me as odd.

But the tiny Spar grocery store in Inverary was my first food experience in Scotland, aside from a chocolate bar, purchased a la carte along with the tiniest can of coke you’ve ever seen, on the plane. The grocery wasn’t much bigger than what we Midwesterners would call a party store, and was a storefront right on the main drag, which wasn’t much bigger than what we Midwesterners would call a lane. We purchased provisions for our ‘self-catering’ cottage there – some ham and cheese, cookies, some tonic and yes, gin.

I didn’t mind the self-catering, except that I never got to experience a full Scottish breakfast. Full English is a bizarre treat – a plate packed full of food, and not necessarily food you’d think of for breakfast. Oh sure, there are eggs and toast and sausage, but baked beans? Tomatoes? Mushrooms? It’s a trip, to say the least. Full Scottish, alas, remains a mystery.

We only took the self-catering so far, eating most of our meals out. ‘Out’ was not always what you might think, though. ‘Town’ took on quite a different meaning in this part of the country. Places named on the map were often no more than a handful of houses at a bend in the road. If there happened to be a post office or a grocery as well, it felt practically urban.

So our first dinner was in the ‘town’ up the way, which actually had a gas station and a couple bed and breakfasts. We had our supper at one of the b&bs which had been recommended to us by our landlady at Torrisdale. It was not cheap, but we were feeling flush and the sample menu left in the cottage looked luscious.

On arriving, the man of the house greeted us and ushered us into the sitting room for drinks, raising his eyebrow and telling us there was a bit of a ‘floorshow’ on that night. Floorshow indeed. As it turned out, the b&b was occupied in its entirety by the McDougall family, all 15 of them. As the extended family settled into the room, I don’t think I spoke more than a word or two to Keith as I actively eavesdropped on the proceedings. Absolutely fabulous. Clan McDougall consisted of a father, several grown sons and their families. One son had married a French woman and the older of their two sons was quite the snacky young man, lean and dark and very European looking. Grandma was there too, demure but persistent in her drink orders. She put back quite a few.

Dinner was served by the host and his daughter, having been prepared by the lady of the house. It was fantastic. I had scallops, tender and sweet, fresh off the Carradale fishing boats just down the road. I think Keith had lamb, but he started with haggis. Yes, haggis – and it was extremely good. It’s a sort of peppery sausage affair, but not in a casing, with overtones of organ meats. It came with a whisky cream sauce. Delish.

We overdid that night, both in terms of culinary excess and monetary outlay, but that wasn’t the case for the entire trip. We ate plenty of pub food, although I don’t know that I ever managed to get a ‘toasty’ (toasted sandwich). I did have a ‘cheese salad sandwich’ which consisted of shredded cheese piled on a ‘bap’ (bun) with tomato, lettuce and mayo. It was odd, but very tasty. That was in Rothesay, where I had my first taste of chips from a chip shop. This was after The Proclaimers concert (and several ciders) and is apparently the food of choice for the drunk. The chips were cut thicker than the Belgian frites I had in Paris, but were perfectly fried and were just as light and sweet inside as their skinnier cousins. Quite a pleasant thing to walk down the street along the bay, hand in hand with the love of one’s life, eating chips from a brown paper bag and giggling.

We also had handmade chocolate and more haggis (not together!) while on the Isle of Arran, a ‘kipper’ – a whole smoked fish – for breakfast, a langoustine salad from a little shack near Skipness Castle and some weird Scottish drink called Irn-Bru which is orange in color and flavored with, you guessed it, iron. I had fish seemingly everywhere – being right by the sea it seemed a prudent choice – and somewhere along the way there was a tasty peach and strawberry cobbler too.

There was one other splurge meal of note, one that we stumbled into on the way to the Isle of Bute. I was hungry, and if you’ve ever been around me in the middle of the afternoon, on the road, when I haven’t had much breakfast, you’ll know that getting some food into me is A Good Thing. I get a little, well, shall we say, single-minded about eating. So as we passed through Tighnabrauich, a sign in front of the Royal Hotel reading ‘Langoustine’ caught my eye. Mmmmmmm, shellfish. Oh yes, langoustine. And they turned out to be the biggest ones I’ve ever seen, too. A dozen, straight out of the sound, steamed and plunked an enormous platter. Keith normally finishes his meal before I do mine; in this case it was even worse than normal as I cracked and picked and sucked my way through all that delicious shellfish. They were by far the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of excellent shellfish in my life.

It was around that part of the week that I realized how at home I felt in Scotland. I have been many places where I thought the scenery was beautiful or that I thought I might want to come back to time and again. This was the first place that I was moved to actual roll-down-my-cheeks tears by just looking at the landscape. It was as if I belonged there, as if some ancient set of genes had been stirred in me by a return to their place of origin. Being a born and bred Midwesterner, I have wondered at my passion for seafood, shellfish especially, and the sea. The romantic in me believes that those fancies are rooted in my ancestry. Scoff if you will – I won’t be swayed. I know what I felt when I was in Scotland. Home.